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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495801">The Atramentous Originator</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/astramaxima'>astramaxima (shotgunsinlace)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure, Blood and Violence, Existentialism, I pray for John Carpenter's blessing., M/M, Mild Language, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Trauma, Science Fiction &amp; Horror, Sexual Content, allusions to substance abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:48:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/astramaxima</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When a repurposed drone emerges mauled from a millennia-old aquifer beneath the Antarctic ice, Dr. Robotnik is flown in to investigate what could possibly destroy the world’s strongest metal alloy designed by none other than himself. The impromptu rendezvous should have been routine: solve it, fix it, then back to his lab in forty-eight hours. But when a sequence of events that challenge both logic and the laws of reality leave the Doctor and his agents stranded, the only way out of the madness is to dive right into it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Victorious</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It wouldn't be me unless I pulled SOME sort of fuckery like this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The roads that lead to his destination are desolate on that sunny, Californian morning. Beyond the crest of dilapidated corporate buildings south of here the sea-glimmer reaches skyward, towards a bruised sky that heralds potential early afternoon rain. Winged blotches of white and orange screech their hunger stoked by the absence of tourists. The locals know better than to feed the wildlife—especially when said wildlife already has a propensity to steal crab meat off people’s plates.</p><p>He parks on a red line four feet from the main entrance to the building, clear of the fire hydrant but flush against a concrete utility pole riddled from bend to bend in sun bleached concert posters and lost dog flyers. Locking the door to his rental, a picture of the man he is about to interview flaps in the salty breeze, the slogan <i><b>PEOPLE = THE ULTIMATE RENEWABLE RESOURCE</b></i> bolded beneath it and underlined in red pen.</p><p>“Celebrity politicians were easier,” he says, ripping the sheet of paper off the pole and haphazardly stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans. From the other pocket he produces his press badge and clips it to the collar of the beige button down Tom had gotten for him just last Christmas. The cheap plastic buttons along his waist are as stressed as he is, but women love it and men envy his easy and feigned sense of confidence necessary to do his job. “Let’s get the ball rolling, you gorgeous bastard.”</p><p>The guards posted outside of the spherical building have an innocuous demeanor despite their rigid stance, a look of eerie blankness in their eyes that forces him to reconsider his game plan. He ought to have brought backup, someone handy with a concealed weapon in case things got rowdy inside the fortress that is PRIME Labs’ main office.</p><p>Flashing his badge, he gives the nearest guard a wave to grab their attention. “Uh, hi. I’m, uh, Wade Whipple, on behalf of—and you don’t care. I know, I’m late, but you can check with the head honcho and you’ll see I’m supposed to have a word with him today.” Neither guard acknowledges him.</p><p>Wade dares to step closer, inspecting the unblemished complexion of a person that is not human at all, but rather a mannequin intent on passing as organic. He confirms this upon closer observation of the eyes that stare off at nothing, a red ring between cloudy blue and unclouded white. The lack of wrinkles makes it beautiful but uncanny, a creation so flawless he marvels at the possibility of its existence.</p><p>The glass doors open with a hiss and a severe woman materializes out of his peripheral, but Wade is too fascinated to give her any proper attention.</p><p>“Mr. Whipple, I assume?” she says, taking a step to the side and gesturing for him to enter. “You are late. I trust you know he does not like to be kept waiting.”</p><p>“I’ve heard. Unfortunately, I already wasted a half-baked apology on these two.” Wade lifts his chin with a sniff when his humor is met with apathy. “Right. Okay.”</p><p>The main lobby is a sprawling Bauhaus wonder, redesigned and optimized to fit a modern aesthetic bursting with chrome and glass. Sharp edges are a hazard to anyone below the age of ten, contradicting the repeating ovoid motif that is as jarring as the alabaster monolith at the center of the room which rapidly flashes and changes the numbers, letters, and symbols displayed around its untouchable surface. Each new line embeds itself, leaving behind a faint, red glow.</p><p>Now, Wade is a simple man, with the most advanced piece of technology he owns being his five-years-out-of-date smartphone with a cracked screen and a shoddily installed VPN. It would take someone with knowhow to describe what he sees on the walls. Holographic screens straight out of sci-fi flicks he used to watch as a kid, curled in his nan’s lap as she fed him saltines on a sweltering Wednesday night in the middle of the Texan summer of ‘83.</p><p>“Mr. Whipple, do keep up.”</p><p>He looks away with monumental effort, a shiver blooming from the depths of his marrow at the unbidden memory.</p><p>In the elevator, he side-eyes the woman in hopes to determine her worldly status. The guards had duped him, but she seems human enough with her crow’s feet and ability to move and speak, albeit tersely.</p><p>“Thought you guys would have some sort of teleportation thing. You know, like in Star Trek.”</p><p>“I trust you recall the agreed-upon contract,” she says, facing straight at the doors and hands firmly clasped before her. “You are not to touch. You are not to ask questions unrelated to PRIME Labs recently unveiled projects. The CEO is allowed to decline inquiries into the previous statement without repercussion from internal or external sources. Recording devices are prohibited but you are allowed a pencil and notepad. Your phone, Mr. Whipple.”</p><p>Switching it to airplane mode, he slaps it onto the woman’s offered palm. “I have exclusive rights to everything said in this interview to do with as I please.”</p><p>“Any omitted devices will be rendered useless the moment you step through those doors.”</p><p>Wade sighs with a stiff nod. “Good thing I just gave you the only device on me.” A lie, but they had predicted the interview would occur in a dead zone. Neither he nor his handlers had any doubts he would be stripped of everything but his clothes, and promptly prepared him for his dance with the world’s obscurest and most vicious devil.</p><p>The elevator stops with a muted ding. “And if he offers you a coffee, I recommend the hazelnut macchiato. He is quite talented.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Noted. Coffee. See, I’m more of a pop kind of guy.”</p><p>The woman sweeps an arm to guide him out once the doors open, but otherwise does not move. Her parting notice is a sideways tip of the head, that fake customer service warmth absent as the elevator vanishes below the plush black carpet, leaving Wade in a grandiose room that is not entirely an office, but more reminiscent of a lounge with the same colors and angular designs prevalent in the lobby.</p><p>His first instinct is to snoop. Without a recording device he will be forced to rely on memory, considering they will likely leaf through the notepad he has been allowed before he exits the building. He <i>really</i> wishes they had sent him with someone as backup.</p><p>“Should I… Should I take my shoes off? It feels like I should take my shoes off,” he says loud enough to be heard over the nonobstructive hum of the air conditioning.</p><p>“If you want to.”</p><p>Wade jerks around, nearly tripping over his own feet at the voice that softly drifts from behind him. “Whoa! Hey. Wow. Didn’t see you there—” He pauses for a split second analysis of the person in front of him: dark hair barely long enough to be swept to the side, full beard impeccably kept, sharply dressed in a gray suit that almost comes across as loungewear. Second or third generation American most likely, given his prominent Middle Eastern features and lack of an accent. “H.W. Stone,” Wade says, wind painfully crawling out of his lungs. “You’re a hard man to reach.”</p><p>The man flashes his blinding whites in a billion-dollar smile. “Playing hard to get will get you far in life, Mr. Whipple.”</p><p>“Wade is fine. Mind if I call you…” He holds out a hand along with the prompt, only to be met with an unsettling stare. Wade had assumed the ‘no touching’ rule referred to material objects and not the man himself.</p><p>“Stone. I’m not one for formalities. Drink?”</p><p>Shoes still on courtesy of the oppressive aura settling along the curve of Wade’s neck and shoulders, he follows Stone a short distance to a less ostentatious corner of the room. Despite the glass walls of the seventeenth floor that watch over a desolate San Diego, the fireplace opposing them lends the space a homey feel. There is a small black desk within the radius of the heat, as well as a countertop with a minimal arrangement of refreshments that hovers in an impressive feat of engineering.</p><p>“Lobby Lady recommended the hazelnut macchiato.” Wade peruses the selection as Stone takes a seat behind the desk. “How do I do that?”</p><p>“Pick a cup and the dispenser will know.”</p><p>“Not to be rude but I thought you’d be making it.”</p><p>“I did. It would’ve tasted fresher had you been on time. Instead I had to use the dispenser to keep it warm.”</p><p>“Sorry about that. Traffic.” Wade means it as a joke to ease the tension, but he remains on the receiving end of that hollow look. Back towards the desk, Wade adds an extra dash of cinnamon and cardamom to his drink. Not because he knows what he is doing, but to gather his wits in the presence of a man he thought would be easier to connect with. “Your thoughts on sushi?”</p><p>“Depends on how and who prepares it,” Stone says, gesturing for Wade to take the seat in front of his desk. “Sugarfish is overrated. Usually I recommend Dagon down on 5th Avenue, the one by the gas station.”</p><p>“Pretty cheap fare.” Wade sits with a foot resting on his knee, cup on his thigh. “One would think self-made billionaires would go for something a little more high-end, but what do I know. I can barely afford rent.”</p><p>“I’m assuming the rights to this interview will pay you a pretty penny,” Stone says.</p><p>“Depending on the flavor and quality of the ingredients.” Wade takes a sip of his coffee and is surprised by the rich taste. Borderline sweet, but easy on the tongue. Not too hot and silky smooth, even for an untrained palate such as his. “Gonna be perfectly straight with you so I’m gonna ask. Are the rules actual rules, are they more like guidelines? You know how interviews go if you want them to be organic, little segues and stray thoughts. Pretty shadowy line, between what is actually said and what is filtered on a fancy blog post.”</p><p>Stone considers him in silence, before smiling with an amicable shake of the head. “My representatives tend to be a little annoying at times, but you have to understand the gravity of the word here. PRIME Labs is the leading force behind the cybernetic revolution and AI development, and a lot of people want their hands on it.”</p><p>“Cybernetic revolution is practically your slogan, and you gotta admit a lot of people have, you know, taken it the wrong way. We’ve all seen the movies.”</p><p>“A pretty shadowy line, that between fiction and reality.”</p><p>The hairs on the back of Wade’s neck prickle to attention. “The recent surveillance technology.”</p><p>“Security web,” Stone corrects him.</p><p>“Not a lot of people see it that way.”</p><p>“A lot of people don’t understand the subtle nuances of technology. Or language, as you well know being a journalist. Who do you work for again?”</p><p>Wade wets his lips. “The Monthly Online.”</p><p>“A pretty recent platform.” Stone leans forward, elbows resting on the desk as he soundlessly taps a finger over the glossy surface. “A question for a question, Wade. Why are you really here?”</p><p>Wade takes out the flyer from his back pocket and drops it onto the desk, flattening it for the other to see. “Automation has been the impending doom of the working class since the seventies, but ever since you popped onto the grid the rate of substitution has grown exponentially. We’re at the cusp of global catastrophe and your company is just banking on it like a kid selling five-cent cups of lemonade at Wall Street during a heatwave.”</p><p>“Is this meant to be a moral accusation?”</p><p>“My question is how long are you going to let this go for? Don’t we have enough people like you fucking people like us over?”</p><p>“I hope your crusade has tackled the likes of shipping companies and entertainment industries before knocking on our door with torches and pitchforks.”</p><p>“This isn’t high school math. The order doesn’t matter.”</p><p>Stone brings up a holographic screen, its shimmery blue surface depicting pie charts and percentages Wade knows will be fruitless to try and memorize. “It has to get worse before it gets better. Our aim isn’t utopian, but balanced lifestyles in which people across the world will be allowed to live. What you call a hoarding of wealth I call the step before the even redistribution of assets. Mr. Whipple, everyone is getting what they deserve in due time.”</p><p>“That’s a load of bullshit.”</p><p>“I don’t expect you to think otherwise. Medicine, political geography, aerospace engineering, education, all subjects that have been positively influenced by our algorithms over the past five years. Progress is a very scary concept to face, but a necessary one if we’re to witness the continuous survival of the human race.”</p><p>Wade takes another sip, sloshing the coffee around in his cup. “People are disappearing.”</p><p>“I don’t see what that has to do with us.”</p><p>“Spikes. Wherever one of your buildings pop up.”</p><p>“In which case, the authorities should get involved.”</p><p>The nonchalant attitude triggers an overwhelming sense of heartburn that is exacerbated by the coffee’s acidity. “Funny you should say that. PRIME Labs has privatized most local law enforcement agencies from the West Coast to the Plains. I’ve seen the documents. You also forgot to add the development of state-of-the-art military tech to that little list of subjects.” Wade stands up, coffee cup left in the drink holder built into the chair he was just sitting in and leaning over the desk, hands braced, towering over Stone. “Don’t even try to sell me the altruistic science crap.”</p><p>He is not a menacing man and intimidation tactics are solely based on skills learned through drunken rounds of poker. He is also no conversationalist, aware that the only reasons he has been sent in for this gig are his dimwittedness and propensity to make people fumble for words to avoid socially awkward situations. But Stone is every bit like his namesake.</p><p>“Fantasy and reality, whatever,” Wade says, keeping his voice even despite the hot anger glowing in his gut, “but I’m willing to bet that whatever you have in those server rooms would make Skynet hide under its little murderous bed.”</p><p>Stone leans back in his chair, casting Wade a charming smile that reaches up to his eyes. “Alright, Wade. You win.”</p><p>“I—Wait. What?”</p><p>“Ask what you want, and I’ll answer to the best of my abilities. Under the condition that any and all names be changed to protect the privacy of those currently not present in this room.”</p><p>Wade eases back onto his heels, blinking down at the man who stares up at him with an uncanny earnestness that had not been there five seconds ago. It feels like speaking to an entirely different person.</p><p>“What kind of journalist would I be if I didn’t.” The warmth of the fire off to his side becomes unbearable. “If anonymity is what you want.”</p><p>“I don’t care about my own anonymity,” Stone says. “But go on. I have other things to get to this afternoon.”</p><p>Retaking his seat, Wade downs the last of his cooling coffee in one gulp. Before putting the cup down, he sees polar bears on the matte surface wrapped in icy tentacles as they dance on a mountain peak being melted by a black sun.</p><p>“Why don’t you start with a brief history? Five years is a relatively short time for some no-one to reach this kind of status. Overnight success, so on.”</p><p>Stone looks up to the glass ceiling, his eyes following the swirls that glow in the same ominous fashion as the inscriptions on the monolith. “My partner and I debated whether or not to call this endeavor <i>Genesis</i> rather than PRIME, but we figured that’d be too on the nose.”</p><p>“This wasn’t a solo mission?”</p><p>“Oh, no, not at all.” Stone deposits his weight onto his elbow on the armrest, gloved hands clasped as his face folds into a look of distant recollection coupled with an expression Wade immediately recognizes as one of longing. “Doctor Robotnik was the true spearhead of this enterprise. I was just the mouthpiece.”</p><p>After a moment wasted gawking, Wade quickly takes the notepad from inside his jacket and begins taking notes. With a name like Robotnik he figures it would ring some sort of bell, but all he gets is silence within the halls of his memory. “What kind of doctor was he?”</p><p>“Hell if I can remember,” Stone says, and Wade knows a lie when he hears one. “He was a brilliant man. Eccentric, as most geniuses are. Have you ever met one? Get on their good side and they offer ample amounts of entertainment. Not intentionally, but… the good doctor got some honest laughs out of me.” His smile turns into something Wade has to look away from. “Among other things.”</p><p>“Technology was his forte.”</p><p>“It was what he lived for. His hands were always in something’s mechanical guts, pulling wires and rewriting code as easily as he breathed. His creations were always something to behold. Alive, almost, despite being machines.”</p><p>“Sounds like a myth.”</p><p>“Mr. Whipple, I’m afraid that in order for you to fully grasp what I am about to tell you, you may have to suspend your sense of disbelief.”</p><p>Wade gets comfortable, legs spread, and pencil poised over his notepad. “I’m all ears, Mr. Stone.”</p><p>“Back then it was <i>Agent</i> Stone, contracted by the United States government to keep an eye on their most prized and volatile weapon. You see, Robotnik was a dangerous man, a very powerful one, very feared.” He stops to comb a hand through his beard. “And when I crossed the Drake Passage, he was waiting—”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Arrival</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The southernmost continent on Earth is as barren as expected, as devoid of life as it is devoid of colors, supplying multitudes of blizzard-gathered mounds that mimic the rollicking hills of the English countryside. And just as white. The harbor offers a brief reprieve of the blinding glitter, its steel slats and rusted bolts painted a neon orange with strips of black reminiscent of gaudy Halloween décor. It is garish, useless if meant to be spotted amidst the throes of the strait’s storms. Which is why he chose to fly.</p>
<p>Nothing commercial, of course. The market has a woeful lack of aircraft capable of withstanding the winds south of Tierra del Fuego, with even hurricane trackers coming up short. Three weeks ago, the only way to brave the passage off season was by boat, and a four-day voyage to reach the polar circle would have guaranteed him nothing but a very expensive bill to foot on behalf of the United States government. He already gave them most of his waking time and he prefers not to give them a penny more. Instead, he took this as a challenge, inspiration.</p>
<p>In a record week, Dr. Robotnik designed and built the first aircraft capable of surviving a theoretical category seven storm. <i>Basic engineering, the reshuffling of some pivotal parts, and a fresh coat of paint.</i> Not to mention a healthy sum of 12.5 million dollars borrowed from the DoD. He will deal with Secretary Faulkner when he returns to Washington a week from today, having conveniently forgotten his standard issue phone with half a dozen messages demanding answers as to where he was going, and why he was taking some of their best agents on The Man’s time and dime.</p>
<p>Being the professional he is, Robotnik will have his assistant type up that report once it is all neatly wrapped with a bow on top. It will say something along the lines of ‘took a stroll down under to make sure I wasn’t losing my touch; I’m sure you people wouldn’t like if I were losing my touch. Would be a real bummer if my drones running reconnaissance in Bab el-Mandeb suddenly went offline without my input’. He is certain they will understand. And even if they don’t, Agent Stone can be persuasive when he wants to be.</p>
<p>Speaking of persuasive agents, the boat ferrying Stone across the passage should have docked three hours ago.</p>
<p>It has been three hours’ worth of pacing, hair pulling, and at least half a dozen fired scientists that are not part of his envoy. He charted his flight to coincide with Stone’s own arrival at the port; not for his sake, but for everybody else’s. Instead, all Robotnik has gotten is a migraine, a chewing out by a woman at least twice his size on the subject that the few people in his company are not bootlickers but rather people of science, and the seventy fifth reminder in exactly one hundred and ninety five minutes that it is <i>fucking</i> cold.</p>
<p>Every time he sniffs, tiny ice particles break off his mustache and get sucked up his nostrils like stardust within the reach of a black hole’s gravity.</p>
<p>“There’s a barrier back there for a reason,” says a young man in a parka as bright blue as his hair. Short, lanky, no doubt an undergraduate with a death wish. “Exposure to the mist will make your body temperature drop considering you just got here and haven’t properly acclimatized to the extreme conditions. Just wait until three o’clock hits, though. We’ve been having continuous record breaking lows these past couple of weeks, but that’s the beauty of off season expeditions. Not for us, obviously, but for the penguins! Have you seen any yet? Probably not since you haven’t really moved from this spot. Oh! By the way, I’m—”</p>
<p>“I <i>do not</i> care,” Robotnik hisses sharp enough to instantly crystalize his spit. “You have four seconds to get out of earshot before I introduce you that famished walrus over there, take a picture once its satisfied face has enough red on it to make a Revlon commercial think twice, and then send it to Nat Geo to feature on the cover of their next Climate Change issue.”</p>
<p>The kid’s eyes widen behind his goggles, his head sinking into the fake fur lining his hood. “Sorry, I was just trying to—”</p>
<p>“Three.”</p>
<p>“Listen, buddy—”</p>
<p>“<i>Two.</i>”</p>
<p>“Alright! Okay, geez.” The kid holds up his arms in a gesture of surrender, walking backwards and away from Robotnik as if turning his back to him would culminate in a maiming. “Jerk.”</p>
<p>When a ship finally reaches port with an agent onboard—not his agent, but his agent’s agent—the doctor is certain an aneurysm looms ever closer. Olivera is a competent woman, too trigger happy for his tastes, but she knows the ins and outs and subtle nuances of Robotnik’s antics while on the field. As Agent Stone’s right hand man, she naturally slots into her superior’s role with unnerving ease, taking over his expected duties with deadly precision until the man can return to his post. It is why they were placed on separate transports in case unfortunate events were to strike.</p>
<p>Olivera stands off to Robotnik’s left, five feet behind him with her arms crossed over her chest and an illegal weapon concealed on the right side of her hip underneath a heavy coat. “Have you heard from him?”</p>
<p>“No,” Robotnik snaps, and elaborates no further. She does not pry.</p>
<p>Perhaps it’s the cold getting the best of his eyeballs, freezing their moisture when sunlight morphs from a shimmer into stretched cotton that floats along the surface of the black water, pushing towards the shoreline with aggravating slowness. He is reminded of <i>Smoke on the Water</i>, while also calling to mind the allegory of the soundless cat padding across a pier under the shield of night. An unnatural stillness befalls the weather that has been buffeting him since his arrival, chilling his synapses with a visceral fear that forces him to step back when the sound of seagulls is mimicked from deep within the tenebrous fog.</p>
<p>A tug on his coat has him looking over his shoulder at Olivera, who switches her gaze from the water to him with a pinched brow that asks without asking. Still five feet behind him, her arms still crossed.</p>
<p>Robotnik turns back around, lifting his shoulders to warm his ears and rubbing the left one where the sound of gulls seems to be concentrated in. His mind summersaults as he glances over his surroundings—acoustics, cracking ice, echo effect, spatial distortion—the sound must be made by something as seagulls do not travel this far south. A radio. A recorded call meant to imitate the soothing sounds of a bearable landscape rather than this otherworldly frozen hellscape.</p>
<p>Millions of microscopic crystals reflect the sun all around him, moving without prompting, pilling, and dispersing in the form of a path towards the widening valley to his back It opens like a curtain to reveal a gray mountain range so massive it dwarfs those he calls home in the Central United States. There is a tenseness that comes from having missed something so gargantuan, as if reality itself were lying directly into the recesses of one’s mind and unspooling the thread of logic and perception.</p>
<p>“Doctor?”</p>
<p>Robotnik blinks at Olivera who has moved minutely closer with her hand half extended towards his elbow. He takes a quick step back without thinking—and the <i>without thinking</i> chills him beyond the physical parameters of the concept.</p>
<p>There is no mountain range that he can see now that he has blinked out of the frozen stupor, the vapor cloud in front of him obscuring more than the atmosphere could on such a sunny day.</p>
<p>“—here, Doctor.”</p>
<p>Olivera gestures with her chin and he follows the line of direction, turning back towards the docks in time to catch the anchoring of a ferry as the sound of a foghorn bellows through the rippling expanse. It bobs into the guards lining the steel frame of the docks as two deckhands jump down with ropes in hand, bringing the boat home to the sound of excited chatter from people Robotnik had not realized were now crowded around him.</p>
<p>Leaning against the ferry’s railing is the payload that keeps Robotnik from legging it back to his aircraft.</p>
<p>Even while buried between a bulky coat and a snug beanie, Agent Stone stands out amongst the painfully average people of any given crowd. It is a maddening fact Robotnik cannot explain given the man himself is everything but outstanding. His work ethic is commendable, as is his proneness to upkeep all physical standards of presentation—but he should otherwise be yet another face in a sea of faces only to be picked up on upon greeting. Instead, Robotnik can spot the lines of his impeccably trimmed beard and gentle dark eyes in a 6am rush at Target on Black Friday.</p>
<p>He hates a lot of things. Not knowing things comes in at number three in the <i>Top 5 List of Most Hated Things</i>, only beat by not knowing why he does not know the thing in the top spot. Soggy breadsticks hold the longest running streak at number two.</p>
<p>Stone is the first one off the ferry, conversing animatedly with a deckhand who gives him a thumbs up once he has crossed onto icy terra firma with the sauntering confidence of someone who spent his developing years in the frigid shorelines of the Great Lakes. Robotnik watches him scan the smattering of people before he is spotted, which has Stone excitedly waving before politely threading through the throng and jogging the rest of the way up to him.</p>
<p>“Doctor!”</p>
<p>“Give me one reason,” Robotnik says, getting in his face once the agent skids to a haphazard stop, “why I shouldn’t send you booking right back, Stone.”</p>
<p>Sobering up, eyebrows arched high in a disgusting display of understanding, Stone nods his head. “Honest answer or answer you’d like to hear?”</p>
<p>“In case you hadn’t realized how <i>late</i> you are, this one got here before you did.”</p>
<p>“As we arranged in case things went south,” Stone says, nodding his head towards Olivera in greeting. “The ship hit hard waters and it was impossible to navigate. Captain thought we sailed right into a storm but there was nothing on radar. Weirdest thing.” He laughs uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kinda lost my stomach halfway into it.”</p>
<p>Robotnik turns away from his agents with a sneer, because leave it to human error to derail his carefully thought out schedule. “It’s a six hour drive on one of those things to the base,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the snowmobiles lined up outside the checkpoint tent. “They’re expecting C-2 weather to meet us two after arrival, so I suggest we chop-chop before we dance a tango with our grizzly popsicle deaths.”</p>
<p>Stone double-times it in order to keep up with him. “Site A is an hour from home base.”</p>
<p>“You forfeit your privilege to complain the moment you decided to show up four hours late, Stone. I’m seeing my machines <i>today</i>.”</p>
<p>“I was going to recommend driving directly to the site from here, shaving off an hour of travel time.” Stone stops walking to fish for a small plastic packet from the inside pocket of his coat. He rips it open and vigorously shakes the square pouch. “That way you can take your time running any initial diagnostics tests, at least.”</p>
<p>Robotnik stops two feet away from him. “Good to know you didn’t lose your mind on that sorry excuse for a boat.”</p>
<p>Stone approaches him as he repeats the process with another packet, shoving the plastic wrappers back in his coat. “I know the thought crossed your mind. Give me your hands.”</p>
<p>Robotnik does so without question, watching attentively as Stone slips the heat packs inside of the doctor’s gloves before squeezing each hand between his own long enough for life to seep back into his fingers. “It was a long trip.”</p>
<p>“You said your flight pod could make it in an hour,” Stone says, pausing his rubbing when he catches what Robotnik means. The soft lilt of the corners of his mouth are undeserved, but Stone tends to smile when it is not needed of him. “I’ll be alright.”</p>
<p>Rubbing turns to holding, thumbs pressed to bony knuckles as they stand in front of each other, Robotnik staring down at his agent with that fastidious sense of awe that will not leave him alone regardless of how hard he tries to bury it under the weight of military contracts and self-imposed intellectual isolation.</p>
<p>Pulling his hands back, Robotnik scoffs. “I didn’t ask.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________</p>
</div>Site A—or Tech Hole, as those manning it affectionately refer to it—is concealed within a 20ft long by 30ft wide tent made from the cheapest fabric higher education is willing to buy. Investors of the program had hoped for greater governmental assistance when the idea of planting PhD candidates alongside seasoned scientists on Earth’s most remote slab of land had been brought to the table during the last meeting to discuss Climate Change—hoping to skim funds to dump towards military sanctioned projects instead.<p>Lucky for him, he is both the science department <i>and</i> military weapons expert while on The Man’s clock. War machines are practical, runaway greenhouse gasses are not. He can win a war in a destabilized Middle East, but rising sea levels would put him out of a job—and life in general—without much effort on its behalf. Granted, according to his own calculations, the world still has enough time to get its shit together before that doomsday clock strikes midnight, and, technically, he has the technology and brains to reverse said doomsday clock—but it isn’t in his contract.</p>
<p>No one ever listens to him, anyway, not unless he is pointing an entire army’s worth of ammunition their way.</p>
<p>Robotnik had seized the opportunity of an underfunded expedition as a field test for one of his shelved projects: a drone refurbished for non-lethal reconnaissance. He had tweaked it for extreme weather, subjected it to countless cold runs in the controlled environment of his lab before deeming it worthy for its first mission away from the nest. Nothing leaves his lab until he is certain there is less than a 2% chance of failure due to weak structural integrity or bugged programming. </p>
<p>He has a reputation to uphold, thus why he decided to take the trip and inspect his machines firsthand the moment Stone delivered the report of the Antarctic Discovery Team having to decommission the drones not one week after receiving them.</p>
<p>“What the hell is this?” Robotnik says, refusing to admit that his voice comes more in the form of a shriek at the sight of his mangled robot. “Whoever said this was an accident is a <i>fucking</i> liar.”</p>
<p>Tables line all sides of the tent, hosting a myriad of tools and instruments Robotnik is easily able to identify despite being outside of his favored branch of science. Dented buckets hold ice with cylindrical metal pipes sticking out of them like wine bottles, all marked with colorful labels and written on with black markers. Clipboards and papers hang from the tarp’s steel frame, pens with little bobble tops punched through a perfect cube of compacted snow. There is a closed laptop, and he spots a sticker of his logo on it.</p>
<p>Despite the poor setup and obvious lack of competence, Robotnik is warmed by the sight of humans attempting to wrap their tiny little minds around Earth’s most easily-answered mysteries. He fathoms he could potentially sit and read a well-written paper on potential findings, if the mood ever struck once he returned to what constitutes as his home. The pursuit of knowledge is always a worthy endeavor in his eyes.</p>
<p>The look of sheer anxiety and borderline terror on the small smattering of people inside the tent is equal parts satisfying and aggravating, but Stone is quick to step in with a calm that serves to worsen everyone’s apprehension. “Which one of you is Dr. Ohta?”</p>
<p>All but two individuals quickly scurry out of the tent, the flap letting in a vicious smack of freezing wind every time it lifts, forcing the small heaters to strain beyond their already weak capabilities.</p>
<p>Dr. Ohta is a woman no older than Robotnik, with graying hair tied back in a tight bun and a friendly face that would rival Stone’s with its level of frankness.</p>
<p>She procures him a set of tools without asking, gesturing for him to take a seat at the only stool in the vicinity, which he takes with an affronted frown while staring down at the carnage in front of him. He removes his gloves before digging in.</p>
<p>“It was ten meters below the ice for about three minutes before the feed went dark,” says Dr. Ohta’s assistant, a young woman who appears to be fresh out of high school. She speaks for the old woman, and it takes a second glance for Robotnik to spot the hearing aid. “The borehole froze while it was on its way up and we were forced to chip away at the ice but…”</p>
<p>“These aren’t pick marks,” Robotnik says, taking a pair of pliers from the tray and poking at the remnants of his ovoid machine. He scans it with his data pad for any remnant of an electric pulse, but its ion cell pack is as dead as pulling the plug. He opens his mouth and then shuts it again, speechless for the first time in his fifty-odd years of life.</p>
<p>With the pliers, he tries to pry the gashes open further for a peek inside to no avail. He drops the tool, taking a long moment to stare off into the middle distance before grabbing the egg-shaped disaster, shaking it about but hearing nothing loose inside.</p>
<p>“Doctor?” Stone prompts, hovering over his shoulder. “What is it?”</p>
<p>“It’s rusted,” Robotnik says, incredulously gliding a finger under the wound. “These aren’t tool marks, they look like—”</p>
<p>“Teeth marks,” says the young woman.</p>
<p>Robotnik is too boggled to snap at the interruption. “These are a hybridized titanium and carbon alloy,” he says, “they were made to withstand up to seventy thousand psi.” He straightens out his back, hands clasping the side of the table with a white-knuckle grip. “Ever try crushing an egg in your fist? Same principle. This is <i>impossible.</i>” He blinks. “Teeth marks?”</p>
<p>“What lives down there?” Stone asks, so quietly it chills Robotnik’s cells. As his personal shadow, Stone is there from conception to completion of every single one of the doctor’s projects regardless of level of confidentiality. The man may not be a genius, but he knows his way around the basics of engineering and robotics, has witnessed the marvels that are Robotnik’s near miraculous creations.</p>
<p>Worse than the question is the answer Robotnik already knows.</p>
<p>“Nothing,” she says, briefly signing to Dr. Ohta who replies with a hesitant nod. “Microbial life, maybe, but we haven’t found anything aside from the expected oxygen, hydrogen, some carbon dioxide.” The young woman reaches for a small stack of papers messily stapled together from underneath a blank binder, highlighted with at least three different colors. “We printed these out two days ago if you’d like to go through them.”</p>
<p>Robotnik takes the report, rapidly scanning it with a sinking feeling settling deep in his gut. A lack of answers makes for one aggravated genius, but lack of answers due to irrational and incomprehensibly unprovable facts is a whole other vicious type of upset. It isn’t even the type of unproven that could be contested, hypothesized, and experimented on. For all his degrees and obscene amounts of computational brain power, he cannot even begin to fathom the pieces of the disjointed picture before him.</p>
<p>“There has to be something missing here,” Robotnik mutters, going over the report again. “There is rust on a brand new machine. Nothing can expedite the process to this extent. And I do mean nothing. Believe me. I’ve tried.” He makes sure to put force into his signing, and Dr. Ohta seems unsurprised by his ability to do so.</p>
<p>She tells him about depth pressure crushing the auxiliary vehicles from previous expeditions, and explains how, while bent beyond repair, none exhibited ruptures like Robotnik’s own. Her usage of the term ‘rupture’ makes him reconsider the potentiality of elements straining the drone from the inside, making it split open like a bloated cow.</p>
<p>“Trace elements of methane and nitrous oxide,” Robotnik remarks to himself, thoughtfully nodding to himself. “Stone, get this wrapped up and strapped to one of the cats. I want answers and I want them before any of us gets a wink of sleep.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>Without so much as a parting glance, Robotnik darts out of the tent for a breath of frigid air he hopes cools down his boiling brain.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Accommodation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Halloween! (A day early, but y'know.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The McCaslin Research Base is as sparsely populated as the rest of the continent. Current human population has capped off at sixty-three this close to the end of the Antarctic summer, when most personnel have returned to the American mainland. The penguin population is thriving in the thousands, and Robotnik cannot blame his team as they gear up bright and early the following morning to catch a glimpse of the waddling grooms on a drifting berg several meters off the coast.</p>
<p>“Not joining your fellow comrades?” he asks Stone as they make their way to what constitutes as a mess hall. It is more of a bar designed around the aesthetics of a ski-top lodge, replete with log walls and a deer head mounted above the shelves that hold a limited variety of Russian alcohol and Columbian coffee beans. It takes Robotnik all of ten seconds to rationalize what is hanging below the shelving.</p>
<p>Beside him, Stone makes a sound twisted between a snort and a laugh. “Are those… bras?”</p>
<p>At the counter, Olivera throws her hands up to the sound of thunderous applause as the mug in front of her is topped off with vodka and garnished with whipped cream. “Today’s drinks are on me, boys, gals and all other pals!” she hoots, plopping down on the barstool beneath her while those who stand closest pat her on the back.</p>
<p>Stone turns to Robotnik with a grin, but something on his face deters the agent from saying anything on the display as he clears his throat. “The usual. As close as they can get to it,” Stone says, as if plucking the order right off the rippled matter of his brain.</p>
<p>Robotnik settles at the bar after realizing that the already limited number of tables have had their chairs folded up against the walls, and those with benches are cluttered with boxes and bags labeled for shipping back to their respective ports. For such a spacious room it feels oddly claustrophobic, as if the log walls would collapse in on themselves at the smallest gust of wind. He shakes off the feeling, chalking it up to the expected misfiring of connectors courtesy of severe sleep deprivation.</p>
<p>Time continued to slug on by as he took apart and reassembled his machine, inspecting its individual parts and cross-referencing the report to what the diagnostics offered him in the form of raw data. So far, he has nothing, and the frustration is pushing away at his joints just as hard as he is pushing his agents. Robotnik is not fooled by Stone’s cheery disposition. No one is this chipper after a night of relentless pacing and <i>forceful explanations</i> while they are used as a sounding board until the crest of dawn, no matter how devoted they are to the job.</p>
<p>“Double shot of espresso with amaretto and a hint of oat milk,” Stone says, carefully placing the ceramic mug in front of him. “That’s more than I expected and I’m frankly more than a little impressed. Amaretto, of all things.”</p>
<p>Robotnik grunts, taking a sip without bothering to blow and feeling his shoulders minutely unwind once the caffeine and sugar begin to circulate his system. Beside him, Stone nods his head in approval before taking the stool next to his.</p>
<p>They drink in their own little bubble of quiet, one that is perpetually poked and prodded at by the raucousness around them. While he does not care for the antics of people regardless of their social, political, or educational standing, there is an inkling of mistrust that comes with thinking that the majority are either scientists or are on their way to becoming one. That they are spending what little funding they already have on illegal goods (and likely illegal services, but he has not been here long enough to come across it) is aggravating considering the amount of pressure he is constantly put under by his superiors.</p>
<p>Maybe he ought to give up robotics and become a physicist at the Ice Cube. He has the credentials for it. He could study neutrinos, solve any and every mess the current staff have gotten into in seven hours flat. Change his chosen last name to Neutrinik (Physnik?) and brush up on his Silbo Gomero, maybe even adapt it for Antarctic living.</p>
<p>He hates the idea almost as much as he hates his inability to solve the damn mystery of what tore the shell of his machine.</p>
<p>“That one’s on you,” Robotnik says without looking away from his coffee, “you wrote the letter of recommendation.”</p>
<p>“She’s good at what she does and she’s technically off the clock. Not everyone can be me.”</p>
<p>“Care to elaborate on that?”</p>
<p>“You know what I’m referring to.”</p>
<p>“The kissing up in hopes of… what, climbing up the titanium ladder? Getting a raise? Recognition?” Robotnik says with an amused lilt, shimming in his seat. “A valiant effort, Stone, but a useless one where I’m concerned.”</p>
<p>Stone dabs a cloth napkin to his lips, which are upturned to betray just how much he does not care for Robotnik’s empty taunts. “Of course, Doctor. No one else is cut out to be your right hand.”</p>
<p>He does not bother to refute it. He never bothers to refute Stone on the rare occasions in which he shoots the ball right back into Robotnik’s court for any existing reason, mostly due to his agent being an unspeakably cunning specimen of a man. Stone knows his place, only ever overstepping when he knows it is expected of him, and only on certain things.</p>
<p>There is one very thin, very dangerous line that Robotnik often ponders over, toes along the edge of with his boot whenever he is bored and his mind has dissected every project on hand. A line that, when the lab is empty and at its quietest, he can almost see Stone peering right at him from the other side. A dance that has gone on for years with their hands firmly at their backs, like gentlemen impatiently waiting for the veil of humanity to be pulled back and allow the animals to take over, if only for one night.</p>
<p>“Take her shift,” Robotnik says. At Stone’s quizzical look, he gestures for him to move. “You never shut up about how much you like penguins, well now’s your chance. Take notes. Do a little Dick Van Dyke.”</p>
<p>“I figured we’d have time to see them once we were done with your robot.”</p>
<p>“Go on, have a blast! Go polar diving with the locals. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to a vacation.” </p>
<p>Stone turns back to his mug with a thoughtful look, one that makes Robotnik instantly regret his words. He expected the man to argue, to stubbornly refuse the offer of a normal shift off as he often does, workaholic that he is. He never thought he would see the day Stone would use Robotnik’s sarcasm against him.</p>
<p>“Robin is as competent an agent inebriated as she is sober.” Stone knocks back the last of his coffee, forcefully thumping the mug back onto the bar top. He slides off the stool and zips up his parka with a tight smile Robotnik turns away from with a grimace. “I’ll let her know. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the overtime.” Stone is midway from vibrating out of his skin, eyes so wide he wonders if being taken up on the facetious offer is a genuine desire rather than one meant to make Robotnik eat his words. He almost takes it back, were it not for the boyish glint in the agent’s eye.</p>
<p><i>Once we were done with your robot.</i> The mangled unit still awaits him in their shared quarters, so he might as well get back to that now that he will have zero distractions. Olivera knows when to keep her mouth shut. Hell, he may even dismiss her, competent human being that he is who <i>don’t need no handler</i>.</p>
<p>A tap to his wrist device draws Robotnik’s attention back to Stone. “If you need me, I’m just a beep away.”</p>
<p>“Not so confident about your agent now, huh?”</p>
<p>“No, it’s you I’m worried about.”</p>
<p>Robotnik brushes him off, nursing his coffee until the very last drop with a twinge of annoyance firmly lodged in his breastbone. At the very least, Stone has the sense of mind to remain standing by to be dismissed, back ramrod straight and hands firmly clasped in front of him like a good little soldier awaiting instruction.</p>
<p>“Get outta here. And don’t come back until you have a peer reviewed dissertation on the migratory patterns of emperor penguins.”</p>
<p>“If you’re really certain.”</p>
<p>“I won’t be nice about it if I have to repeat myself.”</p>
<p>Stone nods his head before shuffling away towards the mess hall’s doorway, and despite not turning to watch him go, Robotnik knows the man pauses to give him one more parting look.</p>
<p>Like a lost puppy, that one. He never thought workplace separation anxiety would be something he would have to tango with, but here he is, straining his hearing while preventing his eyelids from twitching. Stone does deserve the break, although he would never admit it aloud. Eggshells, landmines, quicksand – all just a glorious amalgamation of treacherous terrain Robotnik not so much treads on but violently stomps across to warn of his approach.</p>
<p>He stares down at his empty mug, perplexed by the candidness of his own thoughts.</p>
<p>A tin pot is uncourteously slammed in front of him, its heat seeping through and licking at Robotnik’s knuckles. “Looking like you need at least ‘nother gallon of joe,” says the man behind the counter, his full beard taking a yellowish hue despite the fluorescent overhead lights. His hair is slicked back, adding to the roundness of his face, the stains around his eyes and nose making him look like a badly rendered computer graphic overlayed onto reality. “Eh, I can also offer up the garnish but... And by garnish, I mean the hooch.”</p>
<p>New record for how long it takes for someone to approach him the moment his guard dog leaves the room.</p>
<p>Robotnik does not bother to keep a sneer off his face as he leans away from the bar top, the man leaning towards him with what is meant to be a friendly leer. He half expects the man to reek of vodka, but all he gets is a disquieting whiff of <i>ice</i>. Like the smell of petrified rain.</p>
<p>“I can see personal boundaries are just as nonexistent as common sense in the great unknown,” Robotnik says, eyeing the man with a grimace he usually reserves for sketchy foreign officials looking to bank off his projects. “I’ll pass.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense!” The man tops off his mug with a twitchy hand while pressing the side of his face flush against the wooden surface of the bar, letting up on the pouring just as the pitch black liquid tenses over the rim. “Caffeine keeps synapses awake. You look like someone who needs the boost, Doctor.”</p>
<p>A rap on the counter signals Olivera’s timely arrival, her hand splaying out over the spot between mug and bartender, forcing the man back. “Your English’s as good as mine and I understood him quite clearly when he said to back the fuck off,” she says in that sickly sweet manner women tend to rely on to get what they want, but the gruff force behind each word leaves no room for misinterpretation.</p>
<p>“I only wish to share our southernmost hospitality with our esteemed guests, but…” the bartender pushes away from the counter with his hands above his head, scoffing out a disarming laugh. “Pardon if I come off a little starstruck here, but lotsa scientists have sat at my bar but… no one as infamous as you, Dr. Robotnik.” Taking the tin pot and moving it to the counter behind him, the bartender shakes his head. “Around here, you’re the rock star.”</p>
<p>Robotnik drums his fingers against the worn wood once before settling into tracing the lines carved into it. Genius can recognize genius, if only just the figurative ones. “I see my reputation precedes me, even to the ends of the Earth. But flattery isn’t getting you anywhere or anything.” He waves the man off without wasting another glance, grabbing his mug, and downing half in one go despite the scalding heat on his tongue.</p>
<p>“Thus, the Great Originator foretold,” the bartender says with a belly-deep laugh, before scampering off to serve another patron six barstools down.</p>
<p>It is only then that Olivera decides to take the seat previously occupied by Stone, still dressed in her casual wear but making no fuss about it as she reaches into her jacket pocket. She produces a small metal box which she clicks open and holds out to Robotnik, revealing a neat row of rolled white paper.</p>
<p>“No smoking in my hall,” the bartender snaps from across the way, and Robotnik momentarily flirts with the idea of a threatening bodily harm for the man’s insolence, thinking he can tell him what not to do, but ultimately decides against it.</p>
<p>Before any venom-laden words can even begin to formulate, Robotnik catches sight of something that imprints itself on his retinas with the same flash of a sapphire alluring a humble bowerbird: the familiar glint of duly polished metal. Their rustic surrounding does not lend itself to the material, almost as if it were misplaced, but the brief glimpse as it catches the overhead lights is enough to pique his interest.</p>
<p>The bartender meets his stare head-on, casting Robotnik an unnerving grin filled with crooked teeth before draping his cleaning rag over the sliver of metal where skin should be, only made visible by the riding up of the man’s sleeve. Too immovable for an accessory. A prosthetic, then.</p>
<p>“Why don’t we head back to the lab, Doctor?” Olivera says, flicking her attention between both men.</p>
<p>“Excellent idea, Agent Olivera.” Robotnik slides off his stool, uncertain of what to make of the static-like feeling pulsing deep beneath the skin of his nape. “Bet you’re just <i>ecstatic</i> to be surrounded by the smell of synthetic oil and age-old dust for the next eight hours.”</p>
<p>Olivera may have perfected her poker face but she is still human, and he did just revoke her stand-by status into active for reasons he is not entirely certain of. Needed a break from Stone, that little nagging voice inside of his head sing-songs, as if that has ever been a problem.</p>
<p>Useless. No point wasting brainpower on it. He did this to himself.</p>
<p>“After you, Doctor.” She stands off to the side, seeing him out first before following at his heels like a good little agent.</p>
<p>The weather outside is blinding as the shifting glimmer of snow comes into full view, twice as bright as it had been less than an hour ago. He squints against the assault, patting the front of his coat to verify that he has left his sunglasses back at his quarters. Fourth lapse of the day, he notes to himself; that is four more than usual.</p>
<p>“Anything here stink to you?”</p>
<p>“Sir?”</p>
<p>Robotnik spins on his heels, walking backwards as he thoughtfully curls the end of his mustache. “I need you to focus that puny little brain of yours and think for a hot second. What isn’t clicking here?”</p>
<p>Olivera slows her pace, keeping an eye out over his shoulder. “I really don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Of course, you don’t. Narrow sighted.” He turns around again, jamming his hands into his pockets. </p>
<p>Along their walk to the lab, he makes note of the people he sees across the path. Five less than yesterday for a total of seven, most of which are preoccupied tying things down in preparation for the incoming weather. An elderly, sunburnt woman stares directly at him as she loops a chain through a generator handle, fastening it to a pipe.</p>
<p>“Honest opinion, I think the locals are just weird,” Olivera says. “Mostly isolated, seeing the same people every damn day, it’ll really do it to you. Fuck, one of the chemists in the C unit uses fishhooks as piercings. They’re just a zany bunch.”</p>
<p>The right gaggle of scientists do make for the equivalent of a drunken circus. Freaks and geeks, so on so forth. </p>
<p>Robotnik clenches his jaw to keep it from chattering.</p>
<p>“Any disorientation? Shaky hands? Blurred vision? Any hallucinations?”</p>
<p>“I… sir?”</p>
<p>“Come on, Olivera, keep up! Have you experienced any of these symptoms?”</p>
<p>“I have not, no.” There is a space of a moment that is only interrupted by the crunch of snow beneath their boots. “Have you?”</p>
<p>“Both my health and sanity remain intact.”</p>
<p>“I expected no less.”</p>
<p>“Giving me lip, Agent?”</p>
<p>“And tarnish Agent Stone’s reputation? Never.”</p>
<p>For the flash of a second, Robotnik is blindsided by an emotion he once more fails to pinpoint. Not dread, that one he is very well acquainted with. This runs deeper, a relative twice removed from fear who has been bathed in hopelessness, but sweeter.</p>
<p>It vanishes as quickly as it makes its presence known, leaving in its wake a taste just as alien.</p>
<p>Despite the freezing temperatures, sweat gathers on his brow. “Double-time. I have no plans on staying here a second longer than I need to.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________</p>
</div>He refuses to call it paranoia, but for the sake of focusing on solving the enigma at hand, Robotnik has Olivera secure the perimeter to his quarters and move the remainder of his equipment there. The squat building is no stronghold, but he trusts it to be structurally sound enough to withstand the oncoming storm. Nestled at the center of the base, the mess hall, dry labs, and storage buildings will act as wind barriers. And, if the worst comes to pass, his toys go with him.<p>“Permission to speak freely, Doctor?” Olivera says from her seat by the door, tapping away at the tablet Robotnik threw at her to keep her nose out of his business.</p>
<p>“Permission denied.” The miniature grinder catches on a rusted lip of his machine, making his hand jerk and glove snag on a particularly jagged edge. The thick leather fabric of the glove rips, barely missing his skin.</p>
<p>With an aggravated sigh, Robotnik throws the tool onto his makeshift desk and tugs off his gloves with enough difficulty to send him up and start pacing. He chucks his goggles across the room.</p>
<p>It is infernally hot in the small building, and he has already stripped down to his casual coat. “What the hell do you want?” he says, deciding he needs a distraction.</p>
<p>Olivera eyes him with the same eerie blankness Stone sometimes falls back on when he is trying to devise a practical plan of action. Something taught in Secret Agent School, apparently. He wonders if ‘acting demure and coy’ is part of the strategy curricula, or if it is something Stone picked up on as a means to effortlessly disarm Robotnik specifically. He bets on the latter, taking into consideration Olivera’s blatantly personal aversion to him.</p>
<p>Agents are encouraged to build on their innate skills. Years of training stripped away, Olivera is the brawn behind the machine while Stone provides the heart, the unavoidable human element.</p>
<p>The ongoing sentimentality has Robotnik turning up the corner of his lip.</p>
<p>“During your debriefing with Dr. Ohta, you disclosed classified information regarding—”</p>
<p>“I know what I said. It’s my machine and I get to say whatever I feel like.”</p>
<p>“With all due respect, you are in clear violation of contract. The consequences—”</p>
<p>“Are immediate seizing of possessions and termination, blah blah blah. How can I <i>possibly</i> demonstrate how much I <i>do not care?</i>”</p>
<p>“Since you’re clearly unbothered by who has access to sensitive information, I’m curious,” she pauses to input a deactivation sequence into the tablet, rendering the quarters a momentary dead zone, “when Ohta said the drone was ten meters below the ice… how thick is the ice sheet where it took the dive?”</p>
<p>Robotnik stops his pacing, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down his mangled machine. “Three thousand, five hundred meters.”</p>
<p>“Holy shit.”</p>
<p>“We’re standing on 70% of the world’s freshwater reserves, Agent.”</p>
<p>Olivera’s attention skitters across the room before settling on the impossible machine. The action is nearly imperceptible, but Robotnik catches her sinking further into her parka, lifting her shoulders to cover her ears. “Oldest ice core samples at an estimated two thousand meters are nearly two hundred thousand years old.”</p>
<p>“A gold star for doing your homework.”</p>
<p>“What the fuck is alive down there?”</p>
<p>Robotnik holds up a finger. “Nothing. The gashes aren’t teeth marks, but rather something mimicking the pattern. No traces of microbial matter aside from what’s to be expected, which eliminates the probability of anything biological trying to make a snack of it.”</p>
<p>“But something still tried to make a snack out of it.”</p>
<p>He does not like the implication and has actively tried to dispel it over the past twenty four hours, but the truth is, he is well and truly stumped. Worse than being wrong, he does not have an explanation. He is a man of science, brazen in his pursuit of the unconventional and devoted to the essence of mayhem. But this? Such an innocuous outcome that reeks of nothing but putrid defeat will not end him.</p>
<p>“Standing at the edge of the great abyss of discovery,” he says, reaching for a new pair of gloves and retaking his seat at the table. “Nothing to do but take the plunge.”</p>
<p>“What’s it like in that head of yours, Doctor?”</p>
<p>“Incomprehensible.”</p>
<p>“Think there’s any possibility it might be aliens?”</p>
<p>Robotnik rolls his eyes, grabbing the spare goggles from the pile of miscellaneous equipment on his desk. Despite his lack of a verbal answer, she continues.</p>
<p>“You know, like a John Carpenter type of scenario.”</p>
<p>“Are you <i>done</i>? Oh, good! Looks like you are. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go get me a coffee? And make sure it has one geological formation attached to it instead of an obnoxious bird.”</p>
<p>Olivera makes an amused sound. “Might take me awhile to find him. Your coffee will get cold.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care if it’s frozen by the time it reaches me,” he says, leaning dangerously over his stool to grab the wireless headphones resting at the top of his duffle bag. “I want my agent, Olivera. And I know how much you hate it when I get petulant.” As his parting message, he lets the leather cushions thump over his ears and cranks the music loud enough to omit the heavy clanking of the metal doors closing behind her.</p>
<p>Lack of governmental supervision is another strike on his already defiled contract, forced to exist under the microscope of his babysitters. Robotnik has lucked out with the employ of one Stone and one Olivera, two of Big Brother’s best with a taste for treason and a knack of compulsive lying when put in the government’s hotseat. To say he trusts them with his life is an understatement, despite Olivera’s tendency to occasionally play by the rule book. Where she would take a bullet for Robotnik, Stone would kill for him – <i>has</i> killed for him, and that is a very rare, very precious type of loyalty Robotnik needs to neither question nor test.</p>
<p>He knows that anywhere between the next forty five minutes to four hours, Agent Stone will walk through those armored doors with two steaming hot cups of coffee in hand, and Robotnik will, at least once more, keep their fingers from touching.</p>
<p>Maybe, once he has cracked the mystery behind what lurks beneath the ice, he will turn his attention to the psychological effects influenced by barometric pressure changes and this specific type of yearning isolation.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Decompression</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From the sizzle of a blowtorch as it slices, to the creak and thump of experimental alloys coming apart and onto his desk, all sound is welcome in the otherwise deathly still air of his quarters. Odd, how its oppressiveness manages to bleed through the music pulsing in his ears. It syncs up with his pulse, <i>subcutaneous</i>, throbbing in his temples even as he immerses all of his senses into the axis of his hands.</p>
<p>Asthenization. Or a form of. <i>Pandorum</i> is another term he is fond of courtesy of Hollywood and its rare striking of gold.</p>
<p>Early onset. Nothing to panic about. As he looks inside of his machine, he figures he will be on his merry way in less than twenty fours hours. There is no need to stay and run the remaining plethora of tests, he can just do that back in his own lab. Safe within familiar walls that purr at the presence of their creator, hum their encouragement as he toils away at the great questions. Where these symptoms would actually be worrisome rather than easily explainable and promptly neglected. <i>Nothing that can’t be shaken off in the proper environment.</i></p>
<p>Sound breaks through the barrier of his headphones, the loud clanking of umbilical doors as latches creak and whine to announce its second occupant.</p>
<p>“Was beginning to think you hiked up to Argentina,” Robotnik says, picking up one half of his drone to peer inside of it.</p>
<p>It is unblemished. Its ion core intact. The board and processor are as dry as the day they were installed upon the drone’s rebirth.</p>
<p>“Storm’s moving in faster than they expected,” Stone says, dropping a hefty backpack onto the floor with a noise of relief. “Figured I’d secure your aircraft and gather some supplies for the night.” He leaves again, returning shortly after with a bundle of chopped logs. “Reznick said it should be over by the morning. Weird weather patterns down here.”</p>
<p>Robotnik makes an uninterested sound. “See any penguins?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, actually! We managed to get a chopper south of the Tech Hole. Whole flock of ‘em were just waddling around in their cute little suits.” Stone sniffs, stacking the wood by the portable fireplace. “Smelled like shit.”</p>
<p>He would have made a snide remark if not for the alluring scent of— “Garlic bread,” Robotnik says, abandoning his station to squat beside Stone’s backpack, rummaging through it like a man starved. Which he is now that he thinks about it. With nothing but coffee and water, he is running on fumes. “Cinnamon rolls.” His stomach rumbles once he opens a tin container to reveal pasta with white sauce—<i>garlic alfredo?</i>—along with a small serving of peas and carrots pushed to a corner.</p>
<p>Before he can open his mouth to ask, Stone presents him with a fork. Robotnik takes it, and the pasta, and returns to his permanent spot at the desk.</p>
<p>“It’s not Robin’s job to feed you,” Stone says, removing his parka and carelessly tossing it on the floor before grabbing a small triangular box from the backpack.</p>
<p>“Wasn’t expecting her to.”</p>
<p>“But you were expecting me to.” The agent takes a spot on the floor with his back against the desk, legs extended and crossed at the ankles as he opens up the box to reveal a slice of pizza.</p>
<p>“No.” Robotnik stabs his pasta.</p>
<p>“I got you covered,” Stone says in that annoyingly bright tone of his, plucking a slice of pepperoni and popping it into his mouth. “Enjoy the carbs while you can.”</p>
<p>Twirling his fork in the fettucine, Robotnik snorts. “Wouldn’t want to freeze to death or experience an even more extreme serotonin drop on the last true frontier on Earth.”</p>
<p>“At least we’ll be heading home soon, right? Any progress?”</p>
<p>“Sabotage.” </p>
<p>Stone looks up at him with a furrowed brow. “Sabotage.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s what I just said.” Robotnik puts his meal down in favor of grabbing one half of his drone. “I had one of my girls do some reconnaissance and imaging showed the aquifer has no entry or exit fissures to neighboring water systems. Nothing but a prehistoric kiddie pool. Not that it matters—<i>because!</i>” He holds the serrated end for Stone to see. “She was never in the water to begin with.”</p>
<p>Setting his pizza aside, Stone reaches out to carefully take the remnants of the machine. “I don’t understand.”</p>
<p>“Come on, <i>think.</i> That head of yours can’t be an absolute waste of space.”</p>
<p>“They… wanted you to come here. By any means necessary.”</p>
<p>Robotnik hums in agreement. “They knew how to convince me without wasting a sweat, and that,” he says, pointing his fork at the half still on the desk, “doesn’t inspire a lick of confidence. The moment this storm lets up, we’re gone. The rest of the team can figure its own shit out.”</p>
<p>He returns to his pasta, sleep deprivation and the hit of warm carbohydrates settling heavy on his back as suddenly all he wants is to shut his eyes and zone out. The sun may never set in the Antarctic, but the portholes of the small room have long since been blacked out by tenants before him. An answer, albeit an unsatisfying one, uncoils his muscles where the tension of unknowns fight to wind tighter. It is a skirmish as unwinnable as his thoughts, torn between relief and contempt at the presence of Agent Stone.</p>
<p>They finish their dinner in thoughtful silence, Stone splitting a cinnamon roll and wordlessly offering half which Robotnik takes once he finally remembers to remove his gloves.</p>
<p>He can hear the storm rage against the solid walls around him, winds howling with the ferocity of a famished beast. It is eerie, the deafening quiet that settles around the scream that carries notes of seagulls’ cries and grinding metal. An almost impossible sound, one that is likely just in his head.</p>
<p>The power goes out, and it takes all of two seconds for Stone’s phone to light up their immediate space. “It’s about to get really cold in here.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Agent Obvious. Any other brilliant inputs or do you plan on finally making yourself useful?”</p>
<p>Guided by the phone’s flashlight, Stone crosses the room to toss wood into the fire, but not before delivering a brief touch to Robotnik’s shoulder as he passes by.</p>
<p>There and gone within the space of a heartbeat, seizing at the base of his throat like a noose abruptly tightened. It takes all of him not to gasp, and half his brain power to decipher what in the hell that was about. Not so much the gesture, Stone touches him all the time, but his reaction to such an infinitesimally insignificant brush. Probably even accidental.</p>
<p>The unbearable heat that has plagued him all day withers away into equally unbearable cold. He shivers hard enough to make his teeth chatter before he can clench his jaw, glaring at the tools laid out in front of him with unbridled fury due to the unbalanced state of his mind.</p>
<p>“This place gives me the creeps,” Robotnik says, pushing out of his chair and stretching his arms high above his head, working in a rotation of his hips.</p>
<p>Stone is kneeling by the fireplace, alternating between feeding, and prodding it. “Looks like an apocalyptic hellscape out there, yeah. Now it’s starting to sound like one, too. Barely any people, cut off from civilization. Crazy storms.”</p>
<p>“I’ve always wanted to experience the effects of prolonged isolation on the psyche.”</p>
<p>“Too bad you’re stuck with me, eh? At least you won’t feel the need to walk out there with everything going on.”</p>
<p>“The night is still young.”</p>
<p>“You could be stuck with Robin.”</p>
<p>“Plenty of tools at hand to end my suffering.”</p>
<p>Stone laughs, closing the grate and putting up the poker. The space is now illuminated by the orange and yellow light of the fire as it dances, casting fleeting shadows Robotnik refuses to focus on. Black, shapeless creatures skitter over the walls in his peripheral vision as the gusting wind grows impossibly louder.</p>
<p>“I really hope that’s enough wood to get us through the night.”</p>
<p>“I don’t wanna hear it, Stone.”</p>
<p>“We can be resourceful.”</p>
<p>“My screwdriver is worth more than your entire academic career.”</p>
<p>“I’m not suggesting we burn anything,” he says with an audible quirk of his mouth. “There are other ways to keep warm in survival situations.”</p>
<p>Robotnik blames the heat that graces his face on his proximity to the fire. He brings the conversation back to safer matters. “We’re leaving first thing.”</p>
<p>“Packing in the dark might not be the best course of action. Lots of expensive stuff, as you said.”</p>
<p>“By all means, I’m open to suggestions as to what we can possibly do while Aeolus himself hosts an orgy of horrors on the opposite side of these flimsy walls. Go ahead, Stone. Should we plug in the game console and play some competitive racing? Or maybe do a few rounds of ‘Leak the Pentagon’s Bluebook Just for the Hell of It’ because we both know that’s my favorite hobby when I’m two seconds away from <i>going postal</i>.” Robotnik stops to suck in a breath, fingers twitching by his sides as he focuses on the wide-eyed man in front of him. “I don’t like it,” he continues, holding up a finger, “when creatures with lesser processing capabilities than me think they can pull a fast one. Destroy my tech—lie to my <i>face</i>. And why? For what purpose?”</p>
<p>Stone stands unflinching despite the tirade, face placidly easy. “I can keep my phone on if it’s still too dark.”</p>
<p>The ‘for you’ is implied clearly enough that Robotnik can taste the ferociousness of his anger licking its way up the back of his tongue. He is aware that Stone knows because Stone always knows. That wretched little homo sapiens and his unfathomable knowledge of Robotnik’s most hated and guarded secrets, his wants, and his fears.</p>
<p>“Or… oh!” Stone perks up and reaches into the pocket of his sweater. “I got you something today.” Distraction. Not the best tactic, not the worst. “I saw it and for some reason it reminded me of you.”</p>
<p>Robotnik’s already narrowed eyes drop to Stone’s closed hand, curiosity slowly prodding at his brain.</p>
<p>When Stone reveals his prize, if one could even call it that, Robotnik blinks down at it with baffled intrigue. He plucks it up without prompting, bringing it up to nose-level to get a better look at it.</p>
<p>“A rock.”</p>
<p>“A pebble,” Stone is quick to correct, scratching at his beard as he awkwardly laughs. “It’s, uh, it kind of looks like one of your robots and I thought it was kind of—I don’t know. I don’t know why I grabbed it. It’s stupid.”</p>
<p>Flawlessly symmetrical in its egg shape, Robotnik thumbs the smooth surface, feeling the slight imperfection of erosion that perfectly cradles his thumb as if it were made for him to hold. A pleasant weight on his palm, especially when he encloses it in his fist.</p>
<p>“Do you think <i>I’m</i> stupid?”</p>
<p>“Of course not, Doctor.”</p>
<p>“A second grader knows the correlation between pebbles and penguins.”</p>
<p>Stone stammers, and Robotnik is almost awed by the agent’s loss of his impeccable composure. “I just—”</p>
<p>“You just? Spit it out, we’re not getting any younger.”</p>
<p>Stone stops, shutting his eyes as if to reroute himself to where he needs to be. A fascinating sequence to witness, especially when he opens his eyes to reveal their merciless gravity. “Is it just me?” he asks, and the soft spoken sincerity feels like the glowing tip of the poker has pierced through his third and fourth rib. “Maybe it’s where we are, but I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s knowing that we’re alone.”</p>
<p>The hairs at the back of Robotnik’s neck prickle at the words. “We aren’t.”</p>
<p>“No one’s going to walk through those doors, Doctor,” Stone says, licking his lips post a stuttering breath. “Not tonight. It’s only you and me.”</p>
<p><i>He has a point</i>, his brain traitorously supplies. If ever they were to address that simmering surrealism of their relationship, now would be the time. Away from those who would question the ethics and professionalism of their relationships. <i>What happens in McCaslin, stays in McCaslin,</i> but will it? The arrow needs somewhere to go when the string is released. No amount of reversed polarities can get it back in the quiver once it is set loose.</p>
<p>The loss of superior mental faculties during this trip is a trend he loathes and will correct first thing tomorrow, when he flies back into the welcoming warmth of his laboratory. This willingness to waste valuable energy on things as insignificant as petty human emotions, this giddiness to embrace frivolity in such a dire situation is out of every line he has ever set since his youth. Robotnik can admit that he is not the epitome of impulse control, that overreaction is his daily tea, that succumbing to government approved whims of fancy holds all of the allure of this life he lives, attached to a leash he willingly thrashes against, cutting off his airflow.</p>
<p>But something is different here. Something just beyond his grasp, but his mind does not give chase. Not when it is preoccupied with other, more pressing thoughts.</p>
<p>“You get what I mean,” Stone says after a moment, lacking any formal attempt at seduction.</p>
<p>Does not matter. No seduction necessary when the man planted the seed so long ago; the desert flower blooms parched. Starved. Desperate. It screams louder than the carrion birds, louder than the wind and the grind of metal, louder than the pebble hitting the floor when Robotnik’s hands shove Stone up against the nearest wall and fumble to pull the sweater off him.</p>
<p>But not as loud as the creaking of the old springs of a cot not designed to hold the weight of two men.</p>
<p>The pillow his head rests on invites him to sleep, finally, but Stone allows no such mercy as his hands roam and squeeze, divesting Robotnik of the last of his clothing until there is only skin on skin. His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue insistent against the seam of Robotnik’s lips until he is finally allowed passage.</p>
<p>There is no order to this, no meticulously planned blueprint to follow, just a howl when that wicked mouth wraps around his cock.</p>
<p>Feverish heat and a reprograming Robotnik can feel attaching itself to his DNA, a kaleidoscope of madness and emptiness made full by something that does not belong, but he welcomes indiscriminately.</p>
<p>“Do you feel it?” Stone says against his neck once he has crawled his way back up his body. “That connection.”</p>
<p>“Stop talking.”</p>
<p>“Something’s missing, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Whatever Stone says next is too muddled for him to hear, too far for him to properly care when all he wants is to not think now that he has been pushed beyond that membrane of functionality. For once, here, Robotnik does not want to be like the machines he creates. He barely wants to be human. What he wants is to be broken down to the barest chemical compounds and rearranged into something that makes sense, something with meaning.</p>
<p>“Get on your hands and knees for me.”</p>
<p>Robotnik obeys.</p>
<p>The fire’s warmth could never compare to Stone’s hands on his hips, the carnal noise of lunacy consummated.</p>
<p>Only the wind can drown them, the sounds that spill when a hand pulls on Robotnik’s hair, and when fingernails bite into Stone’s forearms. The incessant creaking of the cot. The animal snarls and pathetic whimpers, the wanton pleas and feverish prayers violently murmured against his shoulder as he is mounted and taken and rendered mind from body.</p>
<p>Taken apart and put back together, like a vessel in the hands of a god.</p>
<p>And when he comes, on his back, empty of mind and of womb, he breathes in the sizzling embers that sear his lungs along with every nerve ending Stone touches during that agonizingly explosion of holy light that shows onto him so many things impossible to human perception.</p>
<p>When Stone joins him, parted lips pressed to Robotnik’s forehead, he heaves a sigh so powerful his frame quakes from the force of it. “Sorry,” he says, warm hands dancing down Robotnik’s chest as the room around them contracts and expands as if manipulated by the ripples of gravitational waves. “I should’ve pulled out.”</p>
<p>Robotnik’s laugh is wheezy, thighs trembling along with his gut as Stone rests on top of him. Detached, as if viewing the scene from someone else’s eyes, he succumbs to the inky black that permeates his vision.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________</p>
</div><i>You wanna know what makes little shit stains so terrifying? Their complete lack of respect for the natural order of things. When have you ever seen a kid shy away from a stranger holding a lolly? Always performing little skits to make grownups laugh. No looking both ways when crossing the street. Hopping along a rooftop’s ledge. You see, children do not develop complex thought until the age of six. They do not understand concepts like life and death, nor their urgency at any given second of the day.</i><p>
  <i>And neither do you, you scrappy little man. With your scraped knees and knobby widdle elbows. With your premature cavities and sickly lungs and burnt-through stomach lining and stunted growth. Don’t worry about that last one. You’ll hit a growth spurt, eventually. Maybe. There’s a cluster of cells in your pituitary gland you might want to see to once you’re old enough—honestly, if you even make it past ten, little buddy! You might, you might not, it all depends on Father Christopher’s mood this Thursday. The old fart needs to bite it already. You’d think that last kidney would just give out, but as they say – God favors the pious, blah blah blah, blah blah blah.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Not you, though. God doesn’t favor you. I don’t favor you. You don’t favor you, but you don’t understand that just yet. Complex thoughts. Probably would’ve been better if Thursday never came the way it did, but here we are now, having a pleasant little conversation over broken toy robots and bruised rears courtesy of Sister Cain’s cane.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>This ol’ run down building should’ve collapsed that day. Should’ve pinned you in that rubble and rid me of this incomprehensible nightmare. But it didn’t. And then complex thought happened. And it doesn’t matter how quickly you try to run, you little demon! It’s bad for your bones, they’ve proved it. You don’t have the bone density or the lung capacity or the will to reach that altar where the mommy of sticks and tin stands in wait.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She. The Holy Mother. Her alabaster shell dressed in black. If you stand right here—no no, a little to the left, there, stop. Stop moving! Here we go. You can see her bones when the sun hits just right. Look closer and you’ll see it… if you squint. The glimmer of trillions upon trillions of little dots of light that cluster into tight little spirals—galaxies! Manifest on the Holy Mother. Her eyes should not be red, but you did that, didn’t you? Oh, how hard you dug that crayon in to get the color to stick. It’s okay. Nobody ever comes in here now that you haunt the place.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>…</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>…</i>
</p>
<p><i>She will never be</i> the <i>Mother, you know. Just another doll for you to break down and repurpose into something special. Something that’ll get you caned within an inch of your miserably little life, but… you’ll live. You don’t get to die. You’re too important to die. Doesn’t matter how hard you clutch those prayer beads and beg for things you don’t understand, repeating them because you’ve heard other grownups say it. Salvation. Redemption. Liberation. Epiphany. You’ll pray and you’ll starve and you’ll bleed and you’ll freeze but you won’t die. You won’t die, no matter how far you try to run! Watch your step, there’s a loose floorboard! Haha-ha!</i></p>
<p>
  <i>You won’t die because you don’t get to enjoy the easy things in this life. You little good for nothing stain, you don’t die because who else will grow into the monster you must become? For no one’s entertainment but your own. You will live, and you will grow, and you will become. And from you everything will come. And you will be not like God, but something new, something different, something true and real and terrifying.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>You will become Me.</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Calamity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wakefulness does not come in the form of a jolt, but a slow roll that begins at the tip of his toes and unfurls upwards: through legs, groin, stomach, chest, arms, and head. Wakefulness arrives but he does not open his eyes when dozens of alarms that mimic the tripped security of his lab echo in his ears.</p><p>To say that something is not right when everything leading up to this point has felt like a twisted, waking dream would be an insult to his own intelligence. Breathing is now reminiscent of a bad trip, too much LSD attaching itself to the chemical invasion of zolpidem. Displaced cognizance, where the more information is fed, the more it becomes suspended in unreality.</p><p>First, he is not alone. </p><p>Second, he is not in his bed. </p><p>Third, he is certain he dreamed for the first time in his life. </p><p>Fourth, again, he is not alone, because his head is resting on an arm that is not his, there is a leg over his, and another arm over his hip whose fingernails lightly scratch at his lower back.</p><p>The rhythmic motion abruptly stops mere seconds after Robotnik involuntarily holds his breath, alerting the other person that he is no longer asleep. Panic pierces through him but not as vicious as the soreness that suddenly blooms all throughout his body.</p><p>The other person. Who would the other person be if not Stone? His agent. His right hand. His employee.</p><p>
  <i>Bad. Bad bad bad. No bueno. What the FUCK have I done?</i>
</p><p>“Breathe,” Stone says in the softest voice, a hint above a gust against the tip of Robotnik’s nose. “You’re alright, Doctor. We’re in your cot, in your designated quarters, at the McCaslin Research Base in the northernmost part of the Antarctic continent. And you’re okay.”</p><p>Robotnik eases, more at the lulling cadence that Stone delivers than the words. Rather than retreat in horror and confusion, he buries himself deeper into the blankets and pillows, molding to the slopes and curves of Stone’s body that glows warm and soft and welcoming. The man readjusts, opening up for Robotnik to invade his space, and he does so with a pleased hum.</p><p>“Did you sleep well? It’s still early.”</p><p>“Is the storm over?”</p><p>“I haven’t heard it since I woke up, but the power’s still out.”</p><p>“Hm.” Robotnik keeps his eyes clenched shut, preferring the quantum state of unknowns over the solidifying truth of whatever happened last night. “Walters and Ohta are in league with each other. They must have orchestrated my departure in order for the State to seize my assets. Joke’s on them when they realize I can’t be fucked—” he chokes on the last word and that finally snaps him out of his stupor.</p><p>Jerking away, Robotnik kicks off the blankets and spends all of five seconds struggling to sit up, wincing when he finally manages it. Feet on the freezing floor, he scans the area in search of his clothes only to find nil. Before he can get up, a hand on his side stops him.</p><p>Stone presses the side of his face against Robotnik’s shoulder blades, beard tickling skin as he shifts enough to leave a kiss there. “You can get dressed and sit by the fire, or you can stay here with me for a little while longer.”</p><p>“And what? <i>Talk about it?</i> Make each other friendship bracelets?”</p><p>Stone’s sigh scorches skin. “I just want to hold you.”</p><p>Robotnik shivers at the explicit honesty, overcome by his own compelling desire to snap Stone’s ribcage open and crawl inside, cocooned by boiling organs that can warm his frigid extremities. Make him feel more alive and less like himself.</p><p>“Why does it feel like I’ll die if I don’t?” Robotnik says, looking down at his shivering hands and dazzled by the ability to put that feeling into words. It is just as if he were clawing away from Death’s door, begging to be let go.</p><p>“Like hunger pangs,” Stone states, not at all a question but a statement made out of equal perplexity. “Or a junkie jonesing for a fix.”</p><p>Robotnik snaps his fingers, turning on the cot to face him. “That’s it! Stone, I’m willing to stake my babies that a full analysis of our food will turn up traces of some sort of psychedelics.”</p><p>“We’re both perfectly sober, Doctor.”</p><p>“Then how the HELL do you explain last night?!”</p><p>Stone blinks at him, taken aback by the explosion Robotnik immediately regrets. “If you want to call that a mistake, who is some lowly agent with limited mental capabilities to argue with a genius?”</p><p>“That’s not what I mean.”</p><p>“That certainly sounds like what you’re insinuating.”</p><p>“Three years,” Robotnik says, running a hand over his face. “Three years, and why now? Why fall into bed like two animals in heat and—,” he gestures wildly, “why am I suddenly so gung-ho about wanting this?”</p><p>Stone dares to reach up and comb Robotnik’s hair out of his eyes. “Because it’s been three years, and maybe… this was the nudge we both needed.” The argument is not compelling, but a kiss to the corner of his mouth does a very good job of convincing him it does not need to be when Stone pulls him back onto the cot. “We can both be honest if it’ll make you feel any better. We don’t have to look at the big picture right this moment,” he says, draping himself over Robotnik’s prone form and pulling the blankets over them. “Just… breathe with me.”</p><p>Foolishly enraptured, Robotnik closes his eyes and allows for his chest to move in tune with Stone’s own hypnotic in and out. Nose to nose, he entangles his fingers behind the Agent’s neck as if it were an anchor to this deceitful perception of reality that has made his mind its home.</p><p>“I don’t have an answer,” Robotnik whispers against his mouth, shivering despite the borrowed warmth. “It’s as if something removed a gear inside my brain. They do their job, but it’s disjointed, like operating on morphine.”</p><p>“You said so yourself, Doctor.” Stone drums his fingertips over his collarbone, pausing only to trace it while he thinks. “Asthenization. In a couple of hours, we’ll be heading back home, and this will all be over. You won’t ever have to think about it again.”</p><p>There is a specific feeling that comes with the realization that one is losing their mind: it is that hollow-gut sensation of bringing the foot down on a step that had been there just a second ago, only to encounter nothing.</p><p>“I did say that.” </p><p>Stone’s lips trace a line of liquid fire down his neck, disappearing under the blankets as they trudge on down his chest, down his belly, to settle hotly below his navel, teeth playfully grazing skin. “Someone’s happy to see me.”</p><p>Robotnik groans in dismay, hiding behind his forearm and cursing his body’s sudden candor. “Don’t pat yourself on the back just yet, Stone. An initiated sequence does not guarantee a launch.”</p><p>“All systems nominal, sir.”</p><p>He cannot help the way his thighs part in welcome, or the pathetic little moan that escapes when Stone takes him into his mouth.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________</p>
</div>The overhead lights do not flicker on.<p>What wakes Robotnik a second time is unknown, buried as he is against Stone’s chest and under the heavy blankets that trap their body heat as it pulls him into a haze of thoughtless comfort. He breathes in deep and winces when his body thrums with the dull ache of strenuous physical activity. The quiet nearly convinces him to sleep a while longer, to dig deeper into the joint where cot meets human form and not exist within physical perception for a few more moments. But the quiet never wins the wars Robotnik wages against it, antithesis to the concept that he is.</p><p>He rolls away from Stone and this time does not allow room for hesitation, getting right to his feet and rummaging through the quarters for his haphazardly discarded clothes. He finds them near the fireplace that still burns big and bright; jet black fabric basked in orange and yellow. </p><p>And to think Stone doubted the amount of wood he had brought in. To think he had gotten up throughout the night, without disturbing Robotnik, to feed and keep it burning.</p><p>To think that—<i>six, still six, stacked against the wall</i>—no more wood had been used since last night.</p><p>Robotnik squats down beside the firewood, carefully running his fingers over the brittle surface of the logs. He stops when a splinter pushes against the tip of his index finger. Real wood. He picks it up and turns it in his grasp, observing it in the firelight. Oak. The scent of plastic is subtle, likely packaged and shipped to the base. Average, nothing experimental about them.</p><p>He puts the log down, attention now drawn to the fire he vaguely desires to touch with his bare hands. Maybe that will wake him, shake off the dredges of whatever waterlogged phantasm has befallen him.</p><p>What occurs next does so in quick succession.</p><p>There is a frantic knock on the door that kicks his heartbeat into high gear. He turns in time to see Stone sit upright on the bed, but not before catching a glimpse of a shadow mimicking the movement a split second before the Agent did. Like watching a delayed clip or experiencing a hypercondensed version of déjà vu.</p><p>The room is dark and Robotnik is kneeling directly beside the fire, he reasons. A trick of the eyes and nothing more, just another item on the already extensive list of horrors he keeps partially witnessing.</p><p>He needs to leave. Immediately.</p><p>“Doctor?”</p><p>Another knock, this time followed by the creak and clang of an unoiled lever trying to open.</p><p>They both share a look, Robotnik holding it while he carefully grabs his clothes off the ground and rises to his feet, unsure of which course of action is more pressing. The muffled voice from the umbilical wins when it becomes clear enough to understand.</p><p>Stone scrambles out of the cot and towards the door with the grace of a newborn fawn, taking the blanket with him to tie around his waist while Robotnik hurries with his coat.</p><p>The blast of frigid air knocks the wind out of his lungs the moment the door is opened from their side, and the brightness of broad daylight makes Robotnik flinch away but not before catching sight of Olivera bursting in with a hand gun drawn and poised to shoot.</p><p>“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Robin? Robin, what’s going on?” Stone lifts his hands to show that he is unarmed.</p><p>Olivera enters the quarters without lowering her weapon, sweeping the area with a broad glance before looking Stone over and flicking her attention to Robotnik. Her stance is rigid, something he has only ever witnessed a handful of times before and raises his hackles to the point of souring his stomach.</p><p>“Agent Olivera, you have five seconds to tell me what’s gotten into you.”</p><p>“Are you two alone?”</p><p>“Stand down, Robin.”</p><p>“Answer the question, Stone!”</p><p>Stone squares off his shoulders. If the cold bothers him, he gives no indication of it. “Just the two of us since seven last night.”</p><p>“Are either of you hurt?”</p><p>Unwilling to move away from the heat of the fire, Robotnik shakes his head. “We enjoyed ourselves an utterly uneventful night,” he says with a sniff, feeling snot begin to freeze. “Only hurting we engaged in was the hurting of feelings, and I can’t say the same for you if you don’t shut that goddamn door.”</p><p>Olivera lowers the handgun and kicks the door behind her shut, collapsing against it with a chillingly exhausted sigh that alerts them of something being very, truly wrong.</p><p>It is only when Stone offers her his parka that Robotnik realizes she is only wearing the bare minimum of pants and worn sweater likely used to sleep in. Her trembling is violent even as she tries to suppress it, engaging the safety on her weapon before holstering it at her hip.</p><p>“Come stand by the fire,” Stone says, gesturing without touching. “You look like you’ve been out in the cold all night.”</p><p>Olivera shakes her head. “The mess hall.” Clearing her throat, she stands a little straighter. “I think we have a bigger problem on our hands right now.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________</p>
</div>In a brilliant lack of human inspiration, General Rogers of the D.O.D. had once referred to Robotnik as a god of death, baptized by the cliché Eisenhower quote in a war room gone icily silent after witnessing the prowess of his machines at work.<p>Innovation comes at a price. Scientific and technological breakthroughs cannot be achieved without the occasional blindness to ethical concerns. Standing on a league all his own, there is no need to become desensitized to the collateral damage left behind by his creations. After all, it is he and he only who fiddles with the programming. His code. His language. His lifeblood.</p><p>Sister Cain once told him, when he was just a child, that his soul would never find peace during the long sleep. Fifty years later, he would agree if he believed in the concept of Heaven and Hell. In actuality, there is only life and death, and those who deal them.</p><p>Death has never perturbed him or his agents, but the gruesome sight before him manages to make them pause. </p><p>Robotnik recoils with an arm pressed under his nose when the putrid stench of sickly sweet rot burns itself into his nostrils. Morbid curiosity lures him closer to the center of the mess hall, walking closely along the outline of blood that has pooled around the mound of ground-up flesh that was once at least a dozen human bodies.</p><p>A dismembered arm holds a single eyeball.</p><p>A foot still in its shoe is partway jammed in the hole of someone’s throat.</p><p>An earpiece is tangled up in a tuft of electric blue hair.</p><p>The three walls that remain standing are splattered in frozen red, the fourth one that held the door is nothing but a hole with twisted jagged metal along its edges as if someone had punched right through it—if said someone’s fist were roughly the size of an SUV.</p><p>“I reckon we don’t have a CSI unit on base, do we?” Stone asks the small crowd gathered outside the building. He is met with a resounding no amidst the gagging and incoherent, frantic sobs. “In that case, I want you all to listen closely.”</p><p>Robotnik listens to Stone bark instructions at the small group of twenty or so individuals huddled together who cast wary glances amongst themselves. One man contests.</p><p>“Shit like this goes down for the first time ever and you expect us to take orders from government cronies? Who’s to say you sick bastards aren’t trying to pull some fucking Manhattan Project bullshit on us?”</p><p>Murmured agreement has Stone stepping closer. “We’re on your side, Reznick.”</p><p>“And your word’s all we’ve got to go on. I don’t think so.”</p><p>“You think I’m offering you a choice,” Stone says, turning on his heels to indicate the end of the conversation. “Khoury, Smith, Heller. Escort these people someplace warm and wait for us there. Whoever’s in charge of comms, Olivera, you’re with them.” He glances at Robotnik but does not wait for any sign of approval.</p><p>Instead, the Doctor focuses on the one person he is willing to engage with. “Ms. Mallard, as the late Dr. Ohta’s assistant, it would be in your best interest to join us for a little chat,” he says, tugging at his sleeves. “Bring someone of your choice and I’d choose wisely. Our lives might just depend on it. Yours more than ours, but you get the picture.”</p><p>With a start, the young woman hesitates before grabbing a man at least twice her age from the back of the crowd.</p><p>Robotnik does not linger, leading the pack in the direction of the makeshift hangar where, after the surprising discovery of his unresponsive gloves and wrist device, he hopes to get something functional out of his flyer. His heart pounds his eardrums to the tempo of a taiko, fierce but forcibly coherent, intent on vanishing the demons that continue to widen the divide between him and his answers.</p><p>To say there was a murder would be an insult to what they all witnessed. </p><p>“I want everyone’s locations last night,” Robotnik says without breaking pace, “and if even one single person is unaccounted for, there will be Hell to pay.”</p><p>“We were all in our designated cabins except for Benny, the bartender. He usually closes shop around midnight,” Mallard explains, jogging to keep up with the rest of them.</p><p>“Who else?”</p><p>“Just him, I think. I really don’t know, Doctor. I—”</p><p>“Let me tell you one thing,” Robotnik snaps, whipping around to come face to face with her. He touches his thumb to his forefinger and holds them inches from her nose. “Do you want to know what happened to the last person who lied to me? No, you don’t. Because I’m sure that the <i>fuckfest</i> you just witnessed is enough trauma for one lifetime, little girl.” Lowering his hand, Robotnik’s peripheral vision tracks the man she has brought along. “You see this? This is the nose of a bloodhound. I can smell a lie a mile away, so let’s try this again. Who else wasn’t in their quarters?!”</p><p>Mallard takes two steps back, shrinking in on herself. “The lady you sent to comms.” She clearly does not like the look on Robotnik’s face as she stammers out her explanation. “I saw her through the porthole, I don’t know what time it was, but I could barely see a damn thing in the storm if it weren’t for the motion lights, I swear.”</p><p>“Could you tell what she was doing?” Stone interjects.</p><p>“No, she was just… walking. Like she was lost.” </p><p>The shift of her facial muscles tells Robotnik she is being truthful, the miniscule variations of tics only slightly differing from person to person. Mallard certainly saw someone wandering outside, and while Olivera may be a loose cannon, not even she would be dumb enough to venture out into whiteout conditions on foreign soil.</p><p>Mallard’s eyes snap to meet Robotnik’s, and the rush of phantom fingers caressing the back of his neck elicits a sublime sort of anger. “You don’t understand,” she says, as if plucking the thoughts right off his mind, “no person, no matter how strong they are, can withstand those winds without a tether.”</p><p>“Maybe she’s not human,” he says with a mock sneer. “Maybe she’s just one of my experiments.” Extending to his full height, he makes note of Mallard’s and her chaperon’s lack of reaction. “Tough crowd.”</p><p>Cold once more seeping into his bones, he launches back into a brisk stride.</p><p>There are too many pieces with smoothed out edges, all with the possibility to connect in more than one way. Pieces are still missing. Statistics. Numbers. Shapes. Neurons firing at breakneck speeds, neural pathways lighting up just as fast as he arranges and rearranges possibilities and plausibility and probabilities. Three-dimensional puzzles standing on the razor ends of his teeth and they cut as he drags his tongue over them.</p><p>“What are you thinking?” Stone says, his pace matching Robotnik’s to keep the conversation between them.</p><p>Ahead of them is the hangar. It is mangled, and his heart sinks as tangible reality begins to push at the walls of his mental laboratory.</p><p>“Hangar is clearly unsalvageable, mess hall, maintenance shed, and storage building took significant damage. Nine residential buildings, three destroyed. <i>Three</i>. Each average between three and four individuals and there're at least a dozen bodies in the Cannibal Café. The damage doesn’t correlate with errant weather phenomenon. This was premeditated, but you already know that. Now, the question is, who is she protecting?”</p><p>“She couldn’t have been alone in her quarters.”</p><p>“She’s not my priority.”</p><p>“Olivera?”</p><p>“The bartender.”</p><p>Stone is quiet for a moment, looking over his shoulder to make sure they are still out of earshot. “They were able to identify the prosthetic. He’s dead.”</p><p>“Yes, but why?” At his Agent’s confused stare, Robotnik shakes his head. “Pointing out his proneness to closing up late means it’s an established habit, one frequent enough to merit a <i>system</i>. These are seasoned scientists and frontiersmen. She said so herself. Storms like the one last night out aren’t out of the norm.”</p><p>“Unless he intended to hunker down in the mess hall…” Stone finally catches up.</p><p>“The entirety of his communal building should have been with him.”</p><p>“I don’t see where this is going.”</p><p>“That’s exactly the problem, Stone. This seems to be going nowhere.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Induction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter kicked my whole ass. Fic tags have been updated.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By 4:00pm, Robotnik had hoped to be lounging in his usual workwear in the comfort of his home base, free of the dreaded parka and heavy snow boots that limit the circulation to his toes, coffee in hand and surrounded by the inorganic version of blood and guts, as the soothing tunes of Led Zeppelin drifted down from hidden speakers. Commander Walters is yelling at him, General Grievance is threatening to defund his entire operation, and all is right with the world. His thoughts are sensical, coherent, as elevated as he.</p><p>Instead, by 4:00pm, all Robotnik has is the company of a crackling fire in subzero temperatures, back propped up against the Cat he has been driving for the past six hours.</p><p>With his flyer destroyed beyond repair – ripped apart, components waterlogged, ion battery cell imploded from within its cradle – and communications down across the board, they were left with no choice but to abandon the location in hopes of reaching McMurdo some sixteen hours out.</p><p>Divided into groups with an armed agent keeping each in line, they keep enough distance to remain in sight but out of reach of common weapons.</p><p>With the sun as low as it will go, they set up camp in one of the remote outposts that has closed down for the season. At the very least, the small assortment of buildings serves as wind barriers.</p><p>Stone and Olivera sit across from him, forming a triangle around their firepit. He watches closely as Olivera breaks off a piece of a chocolate bar only to hold it between gloved fingers and not eat it, her gaze kilometers away as the fire’s flames dance over her glossy eyes. She blinks when Stone takes the candy from her hands, tossing it to Robotnik, but the Doctor lets it hit the compacted snow beside him.</p><p>There may be no elephants in the Antarctic wastelands, but the blue whale that bellows between the three of them is suffocating. He has run and analyzed all plausible scenarios, and the only ones that end with him gathering the information he needs are those in which he does not break the silence first. He may be the weakest link between the three, but he is also the most stubborn.</p><p>“I never thought the South Pole would be the one to do me in,” Olivera finally says, rubbing a hand over her bicep. “Three tours in the most inhospitable parts of the planet, yet here I am.”</p><p>To her left, Stone stabs his drop point knife into the snow, carving something out before stabbing it again. “None of us are dying.”</p><p>“Don’t you ever get sick of being so goddamn optimistic all the time?”</p><p>“You want to die?”</p><p>“Not out here, I don’t.”</p><p>“Then there’s no point in griping about it,” Stone says with a steely edge to his voice that has Robotnik focusing on him. “At sun-up, we pack up and keep going. McMurdo is a goddamn city, from what I’ve heard. We get there and we flag down Hopkin’s Air Base in Sydney for a ride. But in order for us to do that, I need you to keep your head.”</p><p>“Keep my head?” Olivera scoffs, lowering her voice as she holds up her hands to the fire. “You mean, like everyone else here is?”</p><p>“We’re fine.”</p><p>“I walked out into the storm, Stone, in my fucking pajamas. You slept with the <i>boss</i>.”</p><p>The knife breaks through ice with an uncomfortable crack, Stone’s eyes burning hotter than the fire. “Tread very, very carefully, Agent.”</p><p>Olivera turns to Robotnik, her eyebrows pinched into a look of acute concentration. “You’re the smartest man who’s ever fucking lived, last time I checked. Tell me what’s going on here. What killed those people and what the fuck is messing with our heads?”</p><p>“That’s enough, Robin.”</p><p>“No. I want to hear what he has to say. Give me a damn explanation that makes sense because, let me tell you, I know what it is to trip on hard shit. I know what it’s like to snort a fucking line and this ain’t it, buddy.”</p><p>Subjective evidence loses its strength when contested by outside sources with different insights. He, too, has experienced firsthand the effects of a buffet of drugs, and while this current experience feels strikingly similar, there exists the incriminating fact that he is sober. He is aware of his actions and their consequences. It is his impulses that are becoming harder to curb.</p><p>“What drove you to leave your quarters?” Robotnik asks despite already sniffing the potential answer. His suspicions are confirmed due to the way Olivera’s eyes widen.</p><p>She scoffs, trying to call upon her usual flippant bravado, but he can see it in the way her hands tremble. The bounce of her knee is a dead giveaway, as is the pupil dilation he had seen during earlier inspection. “Consider this my resignation letter.”</p><p>“The very real middle of nowhere,” he taunts, bringing his legs closer to his body to conserve heat, “hoping legality was more like guidelines.” He knows he has hooked her the moment she turns away from him. “Heroin, was it? Nothing quite like that numbness shooting up brings, hm?”</p><p>Stone looks at him through icy lashes, the knife still slipping and cracking over and over again like a scratched record. There is a question there, and Robotnik does not acknowledge it.</p><p>Olivera, on the other hand, remains perfectly still. Only her mouth moves, forming silent sounds of bewildered surprise before something finally slips out. “Did you feel it?” she says, and the terror in her voice seizes something in the deepest, most primal corners of Robotnik’s consciousness. A moment of shared truth. Camaraderie. Understanding. “Like standing in the eye of the storm and hearing him call from just beyond the wall cloud.”</p><p>“Him?” Stone says, leaving the blade buried as he turns his attention to Olivera.</p><p>Hiding behind her hands, she curls tighter into herself. “I don’t know,” is her muffled reply, “Something felt <i>wrong</i> and I rushed out of my quarters the moment I could and I figured there’d be people in the mess hall and…I don’t know what’s going on. Something is wrong and I don’t know what.” Grabbing onto her forearm, she struggles to take in a steadying breath. “It felt like… like those first days after swearing it off. Like I’d <i>die</i> if I didn’t get a hit. Like… hunger pangs but so much worse. So much fucking worse, it was unreal.”</p><p>Her lapse into silence takes the sound of Stone’s knife with it, leaving only the scream of the wind and the pop of fire to carry on the conversation.</p><p>Fascinating, this web so masterfully crafted Robotnik almost missed the truth weaved into its thread. Curiosity singes deadlier than self-preservation, that familiar allure that often leads to obsession dangled so salaciously in front of his nose. Going forward, it becomes less about the how and the why, but the who. Someone has flawlessly plotted and executed this fiasco, manipulated him into realizing that he cannot leave until he has cracked whatever madness is poisoning them all, until he sees the face that hides genius as awestriking as his own.</p><p>It is a threat that must be neutralized immediately.</p><p>He dares a glance at Stone, who stares off into the middle distance with a practiced blank mask that betrays more than he likely hopes. The surrealism of the situation is finally starting to sink into their bloodstream, and Robotnik is betting it will only continue to spread like a contagion.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________</p>
</div>McMurdo Station does not gleam, but the joy it sparks in their ragtag group is reminiscent of Dorothy skipping into Emerald City.<p>A small hill looms to the east, as split between mud and ice as the roads beneath their boots. Despite the brightly tagged walls, some buildings sporting rainbow flags, the sprawling town has an attitude that does not match up to expectation. Blue street signs with weathered lettering complain against the wind, and a grayness lingers heavy over the rooftops and doorsteps, creeping along tight edges like thick fog.</p><p>At their wits end, hungry and fatigued, most of those not belonging to Robotnik’s team shout and holler their arrival, threading through the sturdy squat buildings and knocking on whatever doors are closest. </p><p>“They even have a church,” Olivera mutters, flanking Robotnik’s left as Stone trudges on ahead.</p><p>“Suddenly religious, eh.”</p><p>“No, but a little prayer might go a long way.” She pockets the key to her Cat before pulling back her hood, her features set into a look of harsh resolve. “I cannot fulfill my duty unless you’re absolutely open with me, Doctor.”</p><p>“You have all the information you need.”</p><p>“We’ve all been affected in some shape or form—”</p><p>“Insinuating Agent Stone is no longer trustworthy?” Robotnik slams his mouth shut, mentally berating himself for voicing the one thing he should have kept from saying aloud. There is no substantial evidence, not even an inkling. The only damning evidence here is that Stone continues to be the most level-headed out of all of them, pushing through the haze with the laser-focused intensity he does everything with. Stone’s normalcy simultaneously eases Robotnik’s nerves while setting him on edge.</p><p>Olivera sighs, her breath puffing for the first time as if the cold has finally caught up with them. “This place is scrambling all our heads.”</p><p>Hands firmly under his armpits, Robotnik makes his way across the street and into the central hub.</p><p>He watches as they are greeted first with confusion that quickly turns to trepidation, those stationed here rushing to get spare coats, blankets, and water bottles for the harrowed arrivals. Perhaps too jaded to relay the horrors left at McCaslin, Robotnik notices the absence of information exchange. Instead, those who drove all this way crumble and retreat into themselves in what is without doubt a result of shock beginning to set in.</p><p>He is still waiting for the rest of his systems to catch up with him. The logistics are there, he has run multiple mental simulations and none of them end with any of his agents going postal. None of the civilians that made the trip seem hostile, much less capable of wielding any sort of weapon against one of their own. So, unless someone slipped in undetected and hosted an orgy of gore, the only other option would be a murder-suicide. But why?</p><p>“Why, how, who. Sure feels like all I’ve done since landing is dish out question after question. Like a damn matryoshka doll.” Like his head following disjointed threads down a rabbit hole that Euclidean geometry guarantees will at one point intersect to reveal the picture. For once, the query matches the intricate patterns of thought he would use to answer the unanswerable. It is a challenge, a clever one—<i>unoriginal, I’ve watched at least two movies with a similar premise</i>—but clever, nonetheless.</p><p>Robotnik makes a beeline for Stone who, along with an agitated Agent Khoury, is talking to a woman who apologetically shakes her head. “We usually give it a day or two when big storms sweep through. Knocking comms allows us to divert power where we need it most and prevents the grid from overloading.”</p><p>“A base this advanced and there isn’t a failsafe,” Khoury says in an accusatory tone.</p><p>“We’re not military, mister.”</p><p>“We know,” Stone interjects, “and I apologize for his rudeness. It’s been a rough day for everyone.”</p><p>The woman turns to Stone with a smile, her wide pale eyes looking the agent over before touching a hand to her chest like an elderly aunt witnessing the grandiosity of an estranged nephew. “Please, you are welcome to make yourselves at home for as long as you need. We have plenty of food, medical supplies, warm beds.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Stone says, gesturing for Khoury to take a walk with him. Once out of earshot, he levels his subordinate with a monotone reprimand. “Are we threatening civilians now, Agent?”</p><p>“She’s lying.” Khoury clenches his jaw and stops at the intersection that ties together all of McMurdo, the flags of ten countries flapping aggressively around an abstract statue of a person neither of them recognize. </p><p>“Is that meant to be an excuse?”</p><p>“Sir,” Khoury shuffles his feet, anxiously cracking his knuckles through the thick gloves he wears, “the communications system gets taken offline during a Type 3 storm. Does this place look like it just went through what we did? They’re <i>lying</i>.”</p><p>“Find the dining hall and get yourself something to eat. Warm up.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“That’s an order, K. We’ll catch up with you there in an hour or so. I’m going to poke my nose around, see what I can dig up.”</p><p>Khoury looks from Stone to Robotnik, the Doctor giving him a stiff nod.</p><p>They watch the man slink out of sight. </p><p>“Something’s not right,” Stone says.</p><p>“No shit, Sherlock.”</p><p>“Where’s Olivera?”</p><p>“Wandered off somewhere to lick her existential wounds, I assume. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother paying for a team.” Stone does not immediately reply, and Robotnik follows his line of sight to a single woman who stands beside one of the living quarters. Her red parka blends seamlessly with the building as she stares at them with an expression that borders on bliss. “She’s not the only one.” Without looking away from the woman, Stone angles his head as if to prompt Robotnik to explain. “The woman you were just talking to.”</p><p>“Jealous?”</p><p>Robotnik snorts. “You’ll find we have bigger fish to fry, Stone. Either you get that grid back online or I do, and they won’t like if I have to start cannibalizing their tools to make my own.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________</p>
</div>Cannibalism is the act of devouring one’s own species, and Robotnik is mildly taken by his own somewhat <i>mindless</i> usage of the term whenever he breaks apart machines to rebuild something of necessity. Sustenance precedes creation, both so intricately tied together they occupy the same pathway in his prefrontal cortex.<p>He has tangled with the term ‘hunger’ a lot these past couple of days.</p><p>Set up in his corner of the desolate library, surrounded by the innards of phones, TVs, and outdated computers, Robotnik marries motherboards to crystals to fiber optics. He is a man capable of giving life to the impossible, and with himself as his witness he <i>will</i> find a way to communicate with Sydney, even if that means hijacking U.S. military satellites; he built half of them anyway.</p><p>
  <i>…load in Newton multiplied by pitch distance over two times Pi times torque—with your back on the bed and his hands on your chest, his mouth to your neck and his cock against yours—MEAN DIAMETER OF SQUARE THREAD MULTIPLIED BY THE MEAN COLLAR DIAMETER, coefficient of friction for thread…</i>
</p><p>Sometimes he wishes his mind were only capable of one thought process at a time, but only sometimes. In times of unbelievable duress, it seems that base thinking shines as an evolutionary advantage. But these are not normal circumstances. None of this normal, average, or even realistic.</p><p>While nothing groundbreaking has occurred since their arrival at McMurdo, the hospitality and lack of urgency sits unpleasant in Robotnik’s gut and in no doubt his agents’. The locals’ flippant attitude sits at the crosshairs of disbelief and understatement, and even when Stone and Olivera personally offered to escort what constitutes as the community committee to McCaslin to show them the carnage, they were met with a pat on the back and freshly baked pizza.</p><p>A knock makes Robotnik pause, and he immediately puts down the tweezers at the sight of Stone standing at the doorway with two coffee cups in hand. “Figured you could use a drink,” he says.</p><p>“I could use more than that. Any progress on comms?”</p><p>“Nada. The grid we can get back online but the board is fried.” Stone sets the coffee down on the table, clear out of the way of any material Robotnik might reach for. “You’d have better luck fixing that with the materials on hand.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“But you won’t.” Stone grabs a nearby chair and straddles it, crossed arms resting above the headrest. He looks odd dressed down to jeans and plain black shirt, but Robotnik appreciates the change in scenery. “Do you think it’s just an effect of living down here so long? Or is it that certain types of people gravitate to this type of location? World’s most isolated laboratory.”</p><p>“The latter is looking more likely. They’re unhinged. And that’s coming from me.”</p><p>Stone smiles at him and reaches over, nudging a cup towards him before taking one for himself. “Everything’s just so damn bizarre.”</p><p>And he’s not even hearing things. “Like looking for Occam’s Razor in a discount bin. I’ve got nothing,” Robotnik says, painfully hyperaware of the disquiet feeling of not-knowing something. “None of it makes any goddamn sense.”</p><p>They sip at their coffee in silence and while Robotnik keeps his eyes trained on his materials, he can feel Stone staring at him. “Why are we really here, Doctor?”</p><p>“Asking questions you already know the answer to.”</p><p>“Two days ago, I bought into your desire to yell in the face of whoever was stupid enough to ruin your machine, but now it feels like we’ve slipped and fallen into quicksand with no hopes of escape and if we die here, I deserve to at least know why that machine was so important. You don’t hop on an unscheduled flight for just anything.”</p><p>Robotnik folds a leg over a knee and remains steadfast in his aversion to Stone’s gaze. “What? Never had a favorite toy growing up that Fido buried somewhere in the yard and you desperately searched for?”</p><p>“I thought you loved all your creations equally.”</p><p>He scoffs. “Do yourself a favor and don’t mistake love for intellectual property. My drones are merely an extension of me, prosthetics. But every once in a blue moon something unspeakably beautifully is birthed from your seed. Something that requires nurturing. Something that is so intimately a part of you that its forceful removal is akin to infanticide.” Robotnik drags a thumb over the warm exterior of the cup, running the reel that has burned holey from overplaying. “I may be irrationally attached to an irrelevant reminder.”</p><p>Stone, smart man that he is when he wants to be, pushes no further. “My dog’s name was Blue.”</p><p>“How original.”</p><p>“She was an old Border Collie who’d spend most of her day sleeping in the barn with the horses. My dad would say my laziness rubbed off on her but really, she was just old. I think she had arthritis.”</p><p>Surprised by the glimpse into a past well-coveted, Robotnik finally meets his eyes. “I never took you for a farm boy.”</p><p>“I wasn’t. I was fifteen when I moved out west with my uncle after getting into some trouble with the neighbors.”</p><p>“A real hellion.”</p><p>“I tried smuggling their goats for some extra cash,” Stone says with a laugh, scratching his beard. “My parents kept pouring all our earnings into the farm and my brothers kept giving me shit whenever I brought up the idea of going to college. I hustled. Got caught. Got sent away.”</p><p>When a substantial amount of knowledge is already stored in one’s mind, there is euphoria to be experienced when new knowledge is gained. Robotnik did his homework when he first opened his eyes to a world in which Agent Stone had been assigned to be his security detail. He dug up and devoured every bit of data swimming out in the unfathomable depths of cyberspace, only to encounter a void retroactively spanning from his high school years. It makes sense now. Nothing to track if one lives beyond the reaches of surveillance bloodhounds. “And then the military baited you.”</p><p>“No grants or scholarships for unremarkable Middle Eastern boys trying to get ahead in life. Jack of all trades, master of none. I proved my parents wrong and that’s all that mattered to me.”</p><p>Maybe that is what makes them work so well: their need to constantly show those who underestimate them wrong. “I didn’t ask for the candidness.”</p><p>“You’re getting it anyway.” Stone’s smile is lopsided, his eyes wide with an agonizing earnestness that stuff needlepoints along the planes of Robotnik’s chest. “Look, sometimes it’s easier to ignore things we don’t want to face but what happened that night—”</p><p>Robotnik gets up, making the chair screech against the wooden floor. “I know this is hard for you to understand, but whatever the <i>fuck</i> is going on here is just a teensy tiny bit more important than the absolute lapse of judgement that does not extend past the two of us.” Putting the coffee cup down, he heads for his coat by the door. “Just this once, I would very much like you to pull your head out of your ass and <i>focus</i>.”</p><p>“Have we ever done that before?”</p><p>Parka shrugged on, Robotnik fumbles with the zipper. “Frostbite get to your brain, Stone?”</p><p>“Please, answer the question.”</p><p>“Of course not,” he grits out. He pauses when the ensuing silence slants its way into the white matter inside his skull. “Why?” Robotnik turns to Stone, back pressed flush to the door as a hand lingers on the doorknob behind him.</p><p>Stone looks small. With his arms by his sides and brows pushed together, eyes darting thoughtfully confused patterns across the floor, he looks like half the man who so meticulously dons a sharp cut suit. Physically, he is no different, but something does not click.</p><p>“In the name of full disclosure, I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time. Every once in a while, I’d let my mind take over and indulge in the fantasy of having you, but when we kissed, when I had you pinned to that cot it felt like muscle memory. Like I knew everything you like and don’t like, what you wanted, and how you wanted it.”</p><p>He can feel himself blush up to the tip of his ears. “Predictable Dr. Robotnik.”</p><p>“No, that’s not what I mean.”</p><p>“Then what are you insinuating? That I wiped your memory after getting horizontal at some point? I can assure you that before that night it had been years since I last danced with someone. Long before I even met you. Barometric pressure could have caused some sort of effect; change in temperature between penguin chasing and a warm room could have altered oxygen flow—”</p><p>“You don’t have an answer.”</p><p>“Of course, I don’t have an answer! You think I’d still be here if I did?! You fucked my brains out and I felt every digit of my IQ get up on two legs and make their merry way out through my ears. I orgasmed and it felt like shooting LSD straight into my nervous system. Muscle memory? No, siree! Just an improbable need to—to—” For the first time in his life, his word processor shorts out. Instead of the strum of vocal cords, he is left with an agonizingly physical burning within the sinew of his abdominal muscles. Robotnik digs the heel of his palms against his eyelids, feeling himself shaking beneath the cover of his clothing.</p><p>Miniscule vibrations split the meat from his bones. Transmutation. Crowded machine to hollowed human. A hallowed metamorphosis. The scared boy hidden amongst church pews now four evolutions deep.</p><p>
  <i>Born from the heat of a womb into a cold space. Unfair how the energy of dying stars warms the vacuum of space but not you, never you. The atoms that form you have long since lost their energy. Cold. Like this place you stand in. Like the corners of your sanctuaries.</i>
</p><p>The door handle jabs into Robotnik’s back when hands cradle his face, startling him out of the dreamlike reverie.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Stone speaks as he would to a frightened animal. “You’re alright, Ivo. Nice, deep breaths. Breathe with me.”</p><p>“My involuntary systems are working just fine, Stone.”</p><p>“I know they are.” Despite this, Stone pushes up flush against Robotnik, still holding onto him, forcing their chests to rise and fall to the deep cadence of his lungs. “We’re getting out of here alive and in one piece. That’s what I’m here for. That is my job. Do you trust me?”</p><p>The twist of his organs rips a noise from Robotnik’s throat. A noise caught somewhere between rage and relief; a noise that sounds like a sob that sounds like a <i>yes</i> that sounds too much like asking permission. But the ice shelf which they stand on requires no such thing.</p><p>
  <i>Have you tried turning it off and on again? Force restart. The operating system will realign itself after fifteen seconds.</i>
</p><p>With Stone’s hand now cradling the curvature of his nape, guiding Robotnik’s head to lay in repose along the slope of his shoulder, the agony is quelled into its usual bearable thrum. Just white noise in the crevices of Robotnik’s brain as he reboots, held in comfort within his Agent’s arms. </p><p>“You won’t leave without me,” the Doctor says, and it is neither question nor assertion.</p><p>
  <i>Command input.</i>
</p><p>“You have my word.”</p><p>
  <i>Begin.</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Fissure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The single fluorescent bulb that lights up the shed’s interior casts sickly shadows across the metallic walls, hugging around the haphazardly stacked equipment that should have been sorted or recycled long ago. One thing Robotnik has learned is that these people have no regard for the tools and materials shipped to them. While he, more than most, understands how imperative it is to operate utilizing the latest and most precise of technology for optimized results, he is also adamant on ethical consumption. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Last time he checked, that was still a popular slogan among the masses.</p>
<p>Without his wrist device, he is forced to manually sift through the expired junk for a spare motherboard he can rip apart. The process is slow. Motors, kitchen appliances, centrifuge cores, all cast into a mountain capped by a dusty blue tarp he wrestles out of the way. </p>
<p>The inevitable happens when an old computer monitor becomes dislodged, causing an avalanche he is able to narrowly escape, but not without casualties. </p>
<p>“Je—Fucking—CHRIST. Son of a <i>fucking</i> bitch.”</p>
<p>Robotnik’s ring and little fingers get slammed by a wooden crate that proceeds to pivot and smash on the ground as loudly as his bones had just cracked. Spewing a dozen curses per second, he rips off his glove and shoves the injured hand under his armpit on instinct, the throbbing synching up with his now hitched hissing. He risks a look and instantly regrets it. There are no protruding bones, but the way his fingers are twisted is in no way normal.</p>
<p>He breathes through clenched teeth, fighting through the fogging up of his eyes as he scrambles for that adrenaline that often visits him while working in the lab, when cuts and burns go unnoticed for hours as all his senses hyperfocus on his work. Unfortunately, all he is left with is more of that hopeless frustration that has now made his chest its home.</p>
<p>Sweating cold, Robotnik leans against a wall, hand cradled to his chest. He has to reset them, quick and without thought, but five seconds have now passed, and both are no longer possible.</p>
<p>Robotnik sniffs then blinks his eyes. He blinks them again and again. He tips his head back to keep any form of moisture from escaping them, knowing that if it starts it will not stop until he is back home.</p>
<p>The metal clang of the door hardly startles him as he remains stock still, glaring at the ceiling and wishing with all his might to disappear into the ether.</p>
<p>“Oh. Fancy meeting you here, Doctor,” says a man who is not Agent Stone, or any of his entourage. He is as nondescript as everyone else at McMurdo, with the same glassy-eyed stare that makes Robotnik question the inhabitants’ lucidity. “Looking for anything in specific? May not look it, but there’s a system to this mess.”</p>
<p>The left corner of Robotnik’s top lip involuntarily curls. “I’ve seen frat houses more organized than this dumpsite. The fact that you people are still operating is one hell of a kick to my noggin.”</p>
<p>The man’s smile only grows. “You seem to have hurt yourself. Can I have a look? I’ve done my rounds down at the infirmary.”</p>
<p>Robotnik would phase through the wall if such a thing were possible. Anything to not be in the same room as this man half a foot shorter than him. He is sure he can take him if need be, but he is unsure as to where the sudden hostile thought stems from when the stranger’s body language only alludes to the opposite.</p>
<p>The air in that claustrophobic shed tastes thickly of something Robotnik cannot put a finger on. There is a wrongness to it that permeates his pores and while curiosity tends to be the most powerful of his reckless drives, the fact that he is physically hurt and mentally fatigued only triggers his flight response.</p>
<p>“Tell me you have a spare DAC in this godawful rat’s nest,” Robotnik says, measuring the space between the man and the exit. He holds his hand closer to his chest, unwilling to let him see it. “Any size will do.”</p>
<p>The man turns to the pile of junk, hands on his waist as he thoughtfully nods his head. “ASIC or FPGA?”</p>
<p>Robotnik clenches his jaw. “You tell me.”</p>
<p>“I think reverting to analog processors is pretty damn clever, but it’s you we’re talking about,” the man says with a laugh, inching his way around the cramped space to rummage through one of the rusty shelves stacked with small storage containers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve already figured out how to manually convert R-2R ladders into voltage outputs.” He plucks up the first box he finds and from it draws the piece Robotnik needs, but not before nudging a peculiar looking chunk of rock to the side. “And I mean that in the best way! To share a landmass with the great Dr. Robotnik is one thing, but to see him work his magic? Speechless.”</p>
<p>“Not enough for my taste,” he says, ripping the chip out of the man’s hands. “What’s with the rock?”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?”</p>
<p>“The rock! Why are you keeping a rock alongside something as delicate as a board processor?”</p>
<p>The man blinks several times, but his smile does not let up. “Must’ve gotten accidentally mixed up. Must’ve fallen in by accident. Accidents happen all the time.” He gestures to Robotnik’s hand. “Really, I can set those back for you, easy peasy. We know the importance of functioning fingers around these parts. Can’t build anything as delicate as tech with crooked fingers. The sooner we get those set, the sooner you can be on your way home, Doctor.”</p>
<p>Robotnik does not deem him with a reply, now certain that the man will remain unflinchingly smiling even if he were to call his mother names. Instead, chip and glove and injured hand cradled in his non-dominant hand, Robotnik storms out of the shed with nausea rocking him like waves.</p>
<p>The day is cold.</p>
<p>McMurdo does not benefit from the same humid air as McCaslin given its distance from the shoreline. Rather, the place suffers from a stillness unperturbed by the breeze birthed from seemingly nowhere. He can feel the very moisture being sucked out of his body, much like the liveliness being ripped out of his agents’ eyes.</p>
<p>Beneath the white glow of the sun, Robotnik listens for the faint cry of gulls that refuses to cease even in his fitful sleep. It lingers as tinnitus does, just below conscious perception, spiking at random moments. But now, he listens for it.</p>
<p>His intention is to return to his makeshift quarters and set his fingers before Stone gets whiff of them and tries bullying him into seeking proper medical attention, but that is just wishful thinking. Stone has made himself scarce the last twenty four hours, micromanaging his underlings while keeping a keen eye on any local stupid enough to act dodgier than the rest already are. Robotnik is no stranger to working with only his thoughts for company, as dangerous as that might be, as it usually grants him ample space to think unimpeded by the constraints of social expectations.</p>
<p><i>For the best,</i> he tells himself. Stone has been nothing but a distraction. A welcome one, almost desperately, but a distraction nonetheless.</p>
<p>Along the way, Robotnik catches sight of Stone conversing with the mechanic and takes an idle note of the other four people surrounding him, hanging on his every word. A woman reaches out and almost touches his back in what would be considered a friendly gesture but retreats before she can make contact. Instead, she angles her head enough to meet Robotnik’s gaze with the same type of smile that will perpetually haunt him.</p>
<p>He quickens his pace and refocuses on the gulls’ cries, preferring some noise to the unnerving silence of the place.</p>
<p>But this place is not merciful. It does not care for Robotnik’s sanity, much less his comfort.</p>
<p>The abrupt halt of all sound trips him up. He can feel the inside of his chest freeze, his brain attuning itself to something—like a bird finally aligning itself with the planet’s magnetic field.</p>
<p>He aims himself towards that singular point of voidness, following it with a need that overrides every instinct, human or otherwise. With unblinking eyes, he pushes through a haze that eclipses the unnecessary edges of his perception, making it all fall away as his desire to uncover the source of this waking nightmare takes charge.</p>
<p>His boots make no sound over the muddy snow. Neither does the friction of shifting clothing. The dilapidated wooden door he braces against does not feel real as he pushes it open with his forearm. The rotted floorboards warp with each creak under the weight of his physical form.</p>
<p>The church is not empty.</p>
<p>Devoid of anything living, the meager scattering of pews face the door rather than the half sunken altar. There is no indication of any sort of denomination: no Holy Cross, no Virgin, no Star of David. There is no Buddha, no Krishna, no pagan deity. Only empty shelves that once held reliquaries, and he knows this because it is viscerally reminiscent to the spaces of his childhood.</p>
<p>The walls, however, are etched. It is not graffiti nor the spastic scratches of someone gone mad, but intentional markings that tie into this place of nondescript worship. Sunlight shines in through recently installed windows, illuminating the otherwise dark building.</p>
<p>Beneath the particular scent of frost is a smell that is much older, that of thinly staved off decay. It lingers deep and rich, organic when it should not be. Not here. Nothing organic should live here. Not even the wooden ghosts of trees past.</p>
<p>Robotnik does not turn around when he feels the presence of another person close behind, his suspicion confirmed when the newcomer’s shadow mingles with his over the floor.</p>
<p>“Father Christopher always said the Devil is a handsome man in a three piece suit,” Robotnik says. “His ruse wouldn’t work otherwise.”</p>
<p>“I never took you for a man of faith,” Stone says.</p>
<p>“God’s no more real than my desire to become a priest.”</p>
<p>“Our colleagues don’t seem to have gotten that memo.” Robotnik glances at him over his shoulder, prompting Stone to continue. “Olivera went on a rant and that unearthed a very interesting detail that I never considered a scientist would have. Let alone a whole gaggle of them.”</p>
<p>“I know a Catholic nun with a doctorate in evolutionary biology. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”</p>
<p>“They’re <i>waiting</i> for something.”</p>
<p>“Get with the program, Stone. Isn’t everybody?”</p>
<p>“They don’t believe a god exists <i>yet</i>. They’re not referring to a second coming. I’ve never heard of anything like this.”</p>
<p>Robotnik strolls towards the altar, nudging loose slabs of wood to test its integrity before unceremoniously dropping down to sit on its edge. He crosses his legs and rests his top weight over a bent knee. “Back in 2016, a gaggle of bored physicists threw on some robes and recorded a ritual sacrifice in front of the statue of Nataraja at CERN.” He flutters his hand dismissively. “It was a hoax, obviously. Made global news, people were fired, so on so forth.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, the footage was cruddy CCTV quality. Those people were scientists, not actors. <i>These</i> people are scientists,” Stone says with a hint of exasperation so rare Robotnik relishes in it, “and last I checked an uncanny ability to act isn’t an innate skill.” Despite the tight pinch of his posture, Stone steps closer and takes Robotnik’s hand. “What happened?”</p>
<p>In truth, he had forgotten all about it. The violent crookedness of his bones is more uncomfortable to look at than it feels but moving them between Stone’s fingers sends painful jolts shooting up his arm now that his attention has been brought back to it.</p>
<p>“Miniature avalanche. What was Olivera going on about?”</p>
<p>Stone removes his gloves, and his skin is obscenely pleasant against Robotnik’s cold hands. His fingertips dig into the hollow dips between bones as he searches for fault lines. “She wanted entrance to the church but was told it was off limits to guests given its poor condition. Someone caught her trying to sneak in with a pair of bolt cutters I assume she took from one of the storage sheds.”</p>
<p>“Keep an eye on her, Stone.”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I’m all out of eyes to spare.” On that last word, he snaps an index finger into place. Robotnik doubles over himself with a shout that shakes the glass window panes. “I trust my agents and, given the circumstances, a little madness is merited.”</p>
<p>“FUCK.”</p>
<p>“Doctor?”</p>
<p>“Keep talking and keep snapping.”</p>
<p>Stone obeys. “Heller and Khoury are considerably worse for wear now that they’ve been introduced to the local bar—", another finger is snapped into place and Robotnik sobs, “but their reports are diligent enough that I don’t have to pull their ears for slacking.”</p>
<p>“And you?”</p>
<p>“Fully operational. No need to decommission me just yet.”</p>
<p>Robotnik takes his hand back, tucking it against his stomach until the throbbing fades enough for him to think straight. “Always on thin ice, Agent Stone.”</p>
<p>“Luckily, I’m a pretty good swimmer. Would you like some pain killers?”</p>
<p>“Anything to put down a horse will suffice.”</p>
<p>“Acetaminophen is the best I can do.”</p>
<p>Uncurling, Robotnik tips his head back with a sigh. The ceiling is in steadier condition, the rafters likely replaced sometime in the past decade. Curious little effigies stand along them, spherical in shape, vaguely reminiscent of goddess statuettes. “You say these people are cultists?”</p>
<p>“Harsh word, but yes. I think they may be.”</p>
<p>“I fail to see the connection between religious practices and whatever streak of bad luck we casually dragged ourselves into.”</p>
<p>Stone is quiet for a moment. “Olivera’s connection is pretty faith based.”</p>
<p>“The mind is a powerful thing. Pan sear a little confirmation bias, sprinkle it with irrational levels of hope born from desperation, and you have the perfect recipe for organized religion. When nothing makes sense, the human mind scrambles to find order in a cocktail of thoughts that attribute hopelessness to the preternatural. All smoke and mirrors. Purely psychological.”</p>
<p>“What do you blame this all on, Doctor?”</p>
<p>“Human stupidity.”</p>
<p>“Even the illogical? The impossible?”</p>
<p>“Everything is logical and everything is possible if you speak the proverbial language.”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t that technically make you your own god?” Stone squats down to level with Robotnik, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Genius is as close to divinity as it gets.”</p>
<p>The Doctor considers him, prone before his form like a devotee to said alluded divinity.</p>
<p>
  <i>Would you worship?</i>
</p>
<p>Stone smiles, says: “the markings on the walls.”</p>
<p>“You recognize them.”</p>
<p>“Assuming that means you do, too.”</p>
<p>“Their pattern is similar to scribbles I saw throughout McCaslin.” </p>
<p>The bar top, the bartender’s prosthetic.</p>
<p>Stone rubs his beard, and the way his eyes focus on a random spot on the ground tells Robotnik more than he thinks. “When I went penguin spotting with the team, I came across something peculiar. North of the colony was a spring, and the rocks surrounding it were a bright red. The guide explained it had something to do with acidity levels, maybe volcanic, since it never freezes over no matter how much the temperature drops.” He slips his gloves back on, cracking his fingers without thought. “There were grooves on the surface, but I thought it was just part of the geology. Erosion lines.”</p>
<p>Robotnik picks up on the insinuation. “Fascinating.”</p>
<p>“Maybe not supernatural, but I don’t make a habit of trusting overly friendly yet unfazed folks.”</p>
<p>“Best keep those feelers out.”</p>
<p>“Best you don’t wander off.” Stone gently grasps Robotnik’s calf, bowing until his forehead rests on a bony knee. “There’s only one of me, Doctor.”</p>
<p>Hands still cradled close to his body, Robotnik gazes down at Stone’s dark hair. He debates touching him, cradling him close in the same fashion Robotnik desires to be held, but he refrains. They are in a church, after all.</p>
<p>Bleeding sunlight cuts a triangle over Stone’s silhouette. If Robotnik is divinity, then Stone is something beyond the realm of description.</p>
<p>“I could use a little of your genius,” the Agent says, only partially humorous. “Breathing would be easier if I could logic away the sound of birds.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>__________________________</p>
</div>Like the winding up of a broken music box, Robotnik waits for that which should come but he knows will not. As time continues to pass at its slow crawl, the inhabitants of McMurdo seemingly having moved on from their task of getting communications back online and easing his agents into a lulling sense of belonging, Robotnik relentlessly toils away at his transmitter.<p>The conversation at the church replays incessantly as he mines for any hidden meaning, but all he is left with is the reminder of the chilling confession whispered at his knees. Stone is not as unaffected as Robotnik thought him to be, and has no trouble admitting how satisfied he is by the revelation, partly because it reassures him that the man is human and not some sort of malevolent creature out to get them. Stone is too genuine a person to lie about this sort of thing. If he is lying, then Robotnik has allowed himself to become blinded over his years of impeccable service and by all means deserves to be left buried beneath the ice shelf.</p>
<p>More pressing yet are the lines that haunt his sight like lights after a camera flash. He is unnerved by their familiarity and their alienness, his inner self bolting down the halls of his mind palace in search of anything that might spark recognition. Aboriginal scripture, Scandinavian runes, some proto language, childish scribbles, anything. And then there are the effigies, ovoid yet humanoid, drawing on the same principle of that uncanny familiar alienness.</p>
<p>Whoever these people are, they truly are committed to the hoax of the century. Robotnik considers whether or not this may be Walters’ doing, but the man can barely keep his own marital affair a secret. If not a hoax, then he is brought back to the possibility of a mastermind out to play games with him, although the reason as to why still eludes him. A challenge of brains and wits, perhaps. He loathes feeling out of his league.</p>
<p>Transmitter tucked in a hollowed out book and placed on the shelf, Robotnik slips his splintered hand into the pocket of his jacket and braves the evening wind that slowly creeps in its strength.</p>
<p>The base is desolate at the late hour, with people tucked away into their seasonal homes. A lone light shines through the windows of the communications building, the shadowy outline of who Robotnik assumes are his agents barely visible due to distance. The looming snowstorm robs the place of its penumbra from the eternally low hanging sun, and he intends to make it back before the winds pick up much more.</p>
<p>First, he needs to get his hands on one of those damn rocks. A glimpse into the authenticity of the props of this stage play may shed some light on its theatrics.</p>
<p>He barely makes it to the shed when something else catches his eye.</p>
<p>It is not the church’s wooden door silently slamming from wall to frame on rusted hinges, but a glimpse at the shifting shadow behind it. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle at the memory of the mirage that mirrored Stone, that eerie lapse of concrete reality that began this downward trod towards madness.</p>
<p>Teeth clenched, Robotnik marches himself over and does not hesitate in crossing into the black mouth of the church. He is certain that there must be someone lurking just out of sight, but a quick sweep of the pews reveals nothing. The twilit space is as still as it had been before, with the sun barely pushing its overflow of blue and pink through the frosted windows.</p>
<p>“Do not for a second think you can intimidate me,” he hisses into the empty rows around him, slowly turning on his heels to sweep the area once more. “I’ll turn this whole place to dust before you can so much as think about laying a finger on me.”</p>
<p>He gets no response and does not expect one. Whoever this is will not show their hand until either one has the other cornered, and Robotnik would rather die than find himself at the will of someone else.</p>
<p>Sound slowly returns to his ears as the wind buffets the door with great violence although the two do not synchronize—a delay between audio and graphics. He is compelled to reach out and touch this anomaly, submit it for analysis at least through one more of his senses, but a dreadful wave of nausea keeps him from doing so.</p>
<p>Nausea born from fear, from that same helplessness that tormented him as a child, when all that stood between him and the monsters of the orphanage were creaky halls that signaled their proximity. He feels as alone now as he did back then, acutely aware of the absence of his tether. Pathetic, really, how dependent he has grown of another person’s mere presence.</p>
<p>When Stone had first been assigned to be his shadow, Robotnik had resented him. A constant, living, breathing reminder of Robotnik’s loss. He had been quick to try and shake him loose, get the man reassigned, but Stone is as resilient as he is slippery. He and Robotnik are too much alike, and the shadow plays between the two of them are too alluring to ignore.</p>
<p>Now, Robotnik resents him all over again. He wonders where the line between codependency and genuine affection lies. He barely comprehends the difference between personal curiosity and sexual attraction as theory tends to differ from practice when it comes to abstract human concepts.</p>
<p>Sometimes, hormone levels and neuron activity do not reach an accord. Here, at the bottom of the world, things make even less sense.</p>
<p>Storm winds howl and the building creaks as it bows and bends, that unnatural chill crawling deep into the spaces between his bones. He shivers while he walks down to the altar, both arms around himself as he gazes out the windows into the endlessly white tundra that has erased all remnants from their pilgrimage. A dark spec stands against the rolling waves of snow and Robotnik momentarily mistakes it for a penguin, perhaps one that has gotten separated from its pack, but the shape is near monolithic against the sway.</p>
<p>A rock, then. Robotnik is no stranger to entire mountains appearing from thin air in this place. One stone monolith means nothing.</p>
<p>The faux fur of his coat’s hood tickles the back of his neck and Robotnik shivers, momentarily distracted by the memory of careful fingers caressing the skin there mere nights ago. He wonders how long this frustrating dance has gone on for. He could ask. He does not want to hear any of the answers.</p>
<p>What Robotnik does want is to be on his back again, preferably with Agent Stone on top and inside of him. He wants his world rocked yet again, and this frustration sated. Sex might not solve this unbelievable mystery, but it would assuage some anxieties for a couple of moments. Longer, if Stone allows for a short nap afterwards. Woeful as he is to admit, that fraction of a lifetime spent against his Agent’s bare chest had aligned more in him than any rendezvous with illicitly obtained narcotics ever had.</p>
<p>And Robotnik is jonesing for another hit.</p>
<p>Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Robotnik turns in time to catch sight of Olivera standing at the door, ramrod straight. “What do you want?” he says, annoyed at the prospect of having his hastily thrown together plan interrupted. “Earth to Mission Control. Speak up.”</p>
<p>Olivera does not step inside of the church. Instead, she glances over the pews with bugged out eyes. “He’s not with you?”</p>
<p>Funny how time works. Construct or not, its passing cannot be divorced from human perception. Alongside adrenaline spikes, time slows while accelerating and one is left slogging through as if trapped by the crushing pressure of an ocean. Even to a mind accustomed to the rapid-fire processing of massive amounts of information, every so often, the fabric of space-time becomes tangled among the cogs.</p>
<p>Then there is panic seizing the chest, constricting heart and arteries. Distorted organs, much like time itself.</p>
<p>Robotnik pushes past her and he is standing under the white downpour. He yells for a Cat, and he does not know who he is yelling at, but a key materializes in the palm of his injured hand.</p>
<p>The snowmobile purrs to life underneath him and he is nearly thrown off it when Olivera jumps on behind him, her arms tightly around his waist. Something about the others being frozen over, this one conveniently functional. He does not linger to ask for clarification.</p>
<p>No time to waste. No time left at all. The shortest distance between two points is zero, and all he has is a battery powered machine not even of his own making. Subpar. Inferior. Barely useful, but at least he can drive it.</p>
<p>In the penumbra of the midnight sun the mountain range rises, manifesting within the fog that calls the frigid wastelands its home. Beastlike peaks that bring with them nothing but the dredges of madness and despair and hopelessness. Heralds of ruin, challengers of his own spirit.</p>
<p>The monolith he had seen from the windows of the church no longer stands against the wind and is no monolith at all.</p>
<p>Hoping off the snowmobile, Robotnik trudges through knee-deep snow, his breath punching out of his lungs from the exertion until he reaches the dark heap curled on the otherwise unblemished surface. He goes to his knees beside it, grabbing fistfuls of black polyester and hauling them until he is face to face with iced eyelashes and a quivering mouth. He reaches inside of the hood to rub away at the snow clinging to Stone’s beard, to feel for a pulse on the column of his neck.</p>
<p>The polyglot in him offers a hundred and one words to speak, all nasty remarks, but the small hint of bleeding humanity so intimately tied to the unconscious man in his arms wins this battle.</p>
<p>Robotnik calls for Olivera who fails to immediately respond, and he dares to look away from Stone for a fraction of a second to witness the horrified twist of her mouth as she faces the craggy spires miles away. By the time she comes to, he is halfway to the Cat.</p>
<p>No words are exchanged. Stone is propped between them with Olivera securely holding him in place for the long drive back, and were it any other time, Robotnik would have questioned the now colossal distance between their location and the bleak speck that is McMurdo. But as it stands, Robotnik breathes in deep, and focuses on driving.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:')</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Perpetual</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>An apology for last chapter's cliffhanger.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His first mistake had been to act amicable.</p>
<p>Robotnik thinks back to that first conversation with Dr. Ohta only days ago. A slip, an attempt at connection when any other time he would have proclaimed his inquisitiveness as authority. He had thought wrong, let his guard down, left himself open to the insidious presence that now poisons the very air around them.</p>
<p>Normally, he would have kicked back and wallowed in the self-loathing for a solid twenty-four hours before brushing it off and jumping headfirst into a project. Here, he does not have the luxury. Now, he, Khoury, and Heller are wrangling a catatonic Stone into the infirmary while Olivera bellows at everyone who is not part of their envoy out of the building.</p>
<p>“Electric blankets,” Robotnik says over his shoulder, steady hands unzipping the parka before proceeding to remove the soaked clothes underneath, “crank up the heating, get me some tea.” Stone’s skin is frigid, eyelashes wet from melted snow, but he is still shivering, and shivering is good. “Goddammit, any fucking blanket will do!” One is shoved into his hands and with Khoury’s help, Stone is propped up and wrapped up before carefully placed back down on the cot.</p>
<p>Borderline hypothermic, but not quite. Robotnik can work with this. He quickly inspects his form for any sign of frostbite and finds nothing, wrapping him up again. It is then that Robotnik’s fingers begin to shake, the miniscule motion transferring up his arms to rattle his shoulders. He clenches his jaw to keep it from chattering.</p>
<p>His second mistake had been thinking he was invincible.</p>
<p>Behind his technology, beneath his agent, Robotnik is nothing. He is nothing but a little boy, lost and confused, scared shitless, left to wander out in the dark with his lighthouse snuffed out. Too small for his coat, too frail for his titles, cast adrift with no resources to make his return trip viable.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>__________________________</p>
</div>“You lied to me,” Robotnik states as he steeps a bag of Earl Grey in a plastic mug. “The universe is imploding, and you had the audacity to lie to my face.” He fingers the tag attached to the string, making the soaked pouch bob along the surface of the hot water. “Needless to say, the blatant violation of trust leaves a lot to be desired, Stone.”<p>“I didn’t want to alarm you,” Stone says, his voice hushed in his sectioned off area of the infirmary. “It hadn’t been a problem. My functionality percentage was still above average.”</p>
<p>Robotnik slaps the tea bag down on the wooden countertop. “Ten more minutes and Olivera would have gotten a promotion. Enlighten me as to why that wouldn’t be considered a problem?” At Stone’s lack of an answer, Robotnik turns around to face him. “If you value your position, sound off.”</p>
<p>Close calls come with the territory of being a technological mastermind. He even has a couple of prosthetic schematics stored in his personal servers in case the very real possibility of things going sideways were to occur. He has taken down countries from the comfort of his lab and Stone has cleaned up shop with nothing but a pocket knife, but the risk is ever present.</p>
<p>Robotnik cannot recall a time he has ever seen Stone prone. Maybe it has to do with the aftermath of survival, but those captivatingly dark eyes of his glimmer in a way that is foreign to the Doctor. They almost seem more preoccupied with inspecting Robotnik rather than resting or glancing over their own host, like gazing upon a lost heirloom for the first time in decades. It unsettles him greatly, but at this point all he can do is jot that down on the never ending list of disconcerting things.</p>
<p>“Waking dreams,” Stone says, finally dropping his gaze to his lap. “Auditory hallucinations, paranoia, anxiety. Keeping it all in check hasn’t been difficult, but I can’t remember how I got out there in the first place.” His sigh is a defeated one, deflating his form into a mirage of ill weakness.</p>
<p>The person in front of him does not look like the same Agent Stone that has worked for Robotnik for years now. No physical change, but the way he <i>breathes</i> is like he has aged decades within the span of hours. </p>
<p>Rage is disarmed when Stone holds out his hand and Robotnik has no choice but to go to him, tea forgotten, taking it in his as he sits on the edge of the cot.</p>
<p>“I ran a litany of tests while you were unconscious and found nothing out of the norm for the situation. Protein levels were below usual but expected given our nutritional changes this week. No alien cells in your plasma, so we can rule that out.”</p>
<p>Stone smiles up at him, skin wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Good. Now I don’t feel silly admitting that the thought crossed my mind.” He moves his hand to wrap around Robotnik’s wrist, thumb caressing the elevated vein. “I can hear them. The birds. Seagulls. I saw the mountains. They weren’t there when we drove in. I don’t know what to do.”</p>
<p>“When I said you could move mountains, I didn’t mean that literally.”</p>
<p>“I feel like I’m looking in from outside of my own body.”</p>
<p>“I’m eerily aware of the feeling.”</p>
<p>Stone glances at something beyond Robotnik’s shoulders, and the Doctor wishes he could define the set of his brow as fright.</p>
<p>“They’re watching.”</p>
<p>The simplicity of the statement seizes Robotnik’s lungs.</p>
<p>They are alone in the infirmary, Robotnik made sure of it, but at no point did he check for bugs.</p>
<p>“Not here. At least, not like that,” Stone continues, picking up on his thoughts. “<i>Genius is as close to divinity as it gets</i>. They kept repeating it over and over with no rhyme or reason. Unprompted. Out of context. At first, I thought I was picking up on patterns that weren’t there, but Robin pointed it out, too. The way they talk in circles. Almost as if English weren’t their first language.”</p>
<p>“Like a program,” Robotnik says, using his available hand to absently caress Stone’s bare forearm.</p>
<p>“So, they <i>are</i> cultists.”</p>
<p>“Can’t say for certain, but no, I meant more like a literal program. Coded language is fixed to the parameters set by the programmer. An algorithm can learn and adapt given external stimuli, but there is only so much knowledge it can attain, rearrange, and execute within those parameters. Give an AI a conversation partner and it’s only a matter of time until it reverts back to its initial settings due to lack of a properly emulated prefrontal cortex.”</p>
<p>“No free will.”</p>
<p>“If that’s what you want to call it.”</p>
<p>“These are people. They aren’t machines.”</p>
<p>Robotnik squeezes his arm. “I genuinely hope you are correct about that. My already abysmal will to live would be decimated if someone has succeeded in what I continually fail to achieve.” The rest of his thoughts scatter to the wind when Stone’s hand transfers from his wrist to his knee, boldly moving upward to skim along the inside of his thigh. “You’re barely coherent.”</p>
<p>“A walk back to your quarters might help with that.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t the time,” but his nonexistent resolve wavers all the more when a finger traces down the zipper of his pants. “Stone.”</p>
<p>“C’mon, Doctor, I know you’re aware of how adrenaline affects the body.”</p>
<p>“Your adrenaline levels are average, last I checked.”</p>
<p>Stone backs off with a breathless laugh, turning his face towards the ceiling. “Sorry. It was just really nice when we did it.”</p>
<p>“Tell you what,” Robotnik says, feeling himself flush from head to toe, “when this is all over, you can take me out to dinner and then take me to bed.”</p>
<p>Stone laughs again, this time with considerably more strength in his chest. The gesture is contrasted by the wateriness of his Agent’s eyes, the pitiful arch of his mouth that traitorously confirms Robotnik’s swelling fear: the odds of everyone making it out alive are slim to none.</p>
<p>While Stone may not be a genius of the same caliber as Robotnik, the man is a brilliant tactician. His uncanny ability to dance with the powers of deduction and statistics is one of the many reasons why he was assigned to work for the Doctor to begin with. A dangerous man needs an equally dangerous right hand.</p>
<p>Robotnik leans down to press their lips together, his hands carefully cradling Stone’s face with a tenderness he had no idea he was capable of for human life. Their noses brush, mouths parting for what begins as a brief drink but extends past their lungs’ ability to constrict.</p>
<p>“Permission to speak freely, Doctor.”</p>
<p>“Your tongue’s halfway down my throat. I think that’s permission enough.”</p>
<p>Stone sighs hotly against his mouth and Robotnik almost succumbs to his allure, to the stir of arousal warming his groin. The pink tongue that playfully slips out to lick Robotnik’s top lip only makes it harder to think. Another kiss and their hands are on each other’s bodies, stroking hips and squeezing, feeding warmth through their clothes.</p>
<p>“I’ve missed you so much,” Stone whispers, and the agonizing quiver threaded between his words speaks to a confession long harbored. “So, so much.”</p>
<p>He is given no time to respond when Stone is pulling him closer, holding him down against his chest with crushing force. His arms around Robotnik are vicelike, the gesture fraught with foreign desperation and all the Doctor can do is breathe. Exist and breathe. Anchored to this man who embodies everything he could ever need.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>__________________________</p>
</div>They prepare in silence.<p>Only the necessities are arranged with military precision in the mountaineering pack Stone dexterously took from the visitor’s warehouse. Six protein bars, a jar of peanut butter, a stale loaf of bread, and six liters of water in an industrial grade thermos to keep it from freezing. The book containing the transmitter is fastened to the inside of Robotnik’s parka, alongside Stone’s switchblade. Ideally, a tent and some sleeping bags would be next on the list, but the station-wide absence of said items only hastened their plan.</p>
<p>Double ideally, they would not be embarking on this absolutely demented excursion back to McCaslin by themselves.</p>
<p>Personal notepad left on his makeshift worktable, Robotnik made certain to write <i>Bharati</i> on its very last page. Any numbskull would be able to see past the red herring, but he is banking on the hope that his musings on the most primitive of recording technology will buy him and Stone the time they need to scour their arrival station for anything that can aid their great escape.</p>
<p>“We could at least give Olivera a heads up,” Robotnik says, tightening the belt over his parka. The analog clock above the worktable reads 8:45 in the evening.</p>
<p>“If you want to,” Stone replies in that tone of his that says he is only agreeing to make the Doctor happy. “Leave a note only she can find.”</p>
<p>“Strike that. Woman is smarter than I give her credit for.” He looks to Stone who ties his boots with the single-minded proficiency of a man on a mission. Pure and unwavering concentration. “Can you live with the fact that you are about to leave your men behind?”</p>
<p>Stone brushes off the tips of his boot and straightens up, moving to grab his gloves from the cot. “It’s what we’ve trained for. You are our top priority, Doctor.” He slips them on, humorlessly smiling down at them. “Even while emotionally compromised, I will see this mission through.”</p>
<p>“Even if it kills you?”</p>
<p>“Even if it kills me.”</p>
<p>“And once it’s killed you?”</p>
<p>“You keep going and you don’t look back.”</p>
<p>“I keep going.” Robotnik sits on the edge of the cot, opening himself up for Stone to stand between his knees. “That violates the terms of our professional contract.”</p>
<p>“What do you expect to find out there that we can’t defeat, hm? Holding out on me, Doctor?” Stone sweeps his hair back to drop a kiss onto his forehead. “Promise me you won’t look back.”</p>
<p>“You’re the one doing the holding out on, Agent.”</p>
<p>“And yet, who else is there to trust but each other?”</p>
<p>Robotnik snorts. “I can’t trust my own brain.”</p>
<p>“Then trust me.” Stone takes his hand and brings it to rest on his cheek, leaning into it. “I will always do what needs to be done. For you. For us.”</p>
<p>As heartfelt a gesture as it sounds, Robotnik is acutely aware of the true meaning behind the promise. If it ever comes to it, he can only wish Stone the best given their lack of appropriate materials. This was meant to be a clean cut excursion into a natural research laboratory, not a warzone mission. At the moment of truth, Robotnik does not want to be in Stone’s shoes.</p>
<p>From that point on they move quickly, cutting through the gloaming while invisible eyes watch them through darkened windows. Stone converses with the sole woman moving equipment between buildings at that hour while Robotnik rolls the Cat out of the station’s limits and straps the only small container of fuel he could find onto the side rack. He pays no heed to the mountain range that looms in the near distance, either unseen or ignored by the locals.</p>
<p>Robotnik keeps out of sight, crunching the numbers as much as he crunches the building cacophony of panicked screams inside of his chest. It tells him to go back, to crawl into the cot and fuck his Agent until there is no energy left to think.</p>
<p>
  <i>You won’t die but what awaits you is a fate much worse. At the very least, it won’t hurt. Not physically. You’ve been dying to shed this organic form all your life, anyhoo. You’re about to get that wish granted, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.</i>
</p>
<p>“Ready to go?”</p>
<p>Robotnik starts out of his reverie, the voice that sounds like him but is not him fading back into the shrill call of lost seagulls. “Let’s get this over with,” he tells Stone. “You take the first leg.”</p>
<p>The cold is absorbed by the physical barrier that is Stone as the snowmobile trudges on across the Antarctic tundra. While the wind minds its manners and grants them a night of good visibility, the chill brutalizes the corners of his lips. He tugs up the neck guard and tucks it under his goggles, trusting his driver knows the way. Robotnik can still see however, and his eyes remain on the mountain range that moves with them despite their linear travel. Like driving the radius of a playing vinyl, the Earth beneath them rotates to set them on a collision path with the snow-capped giants.</p>
<p>Peaking over Stone’s shoulder, Robotnik spots his gloved hand wiping frost off the dash compass. He can feel the body between his knees tense, his own echoing the sentiment as the needle spins and spins and spins. The Cat banks left at no discernable landmark in hopes of moving away from the mountains, but it only redirects them towards the foothills that begin to rise over the near horizon like jagged spires of pure basalt.</p>
<p>It takes an hour of turning and readjusting their course before Stone finally shuts off the snowmobile, his ragged breaths coming out in menacing puffs as temperatures continue to drop.</p>
<p>Robotnik places his hands on his back, either as a means to balance himself or offer comfort, he is not entirely sure himself. His mind makes one final attempt to rationalize—atmospheric lensing, refraction, dehydration, disorientation caused by extreme temperatures—but the folie à deux is far too uncanny to ignore.</p>
<p>“The birds are singing.”</p>
<p>He is certain it is Stone who says it at first, but even that fact dissolves into muddled confusion and disbelief.</p>
<p>Unstrapping his tether, Robotnik dismounts the Cat.</p>
<p>He observes.</p>
<p>His skepticism keeps him from hypothesizing, from testing out of fear of the potential conclusions drawn from empirical data. Suddenly, the prospect of losing his mind seems far more comforting than whatever else is happening here. Who, if not him, can set such a brilliant stage that defies the very laws of reality?</p>
<p>He trudges on until all that stands between this demonic monument of nature and the dredges of civilization at the bottom of the world are two men with everything to disprove.</p>
<p>Robotnik walks in knee-deep snow until it becomes difficult to breath, legs and lungs burning from exertion and even then he pushes on at a crawl. The low hanging sun paints the mountains black, the screech of the gulls growing muted with each step.</p>
<p>He only pauses once to look over his shoulder, Stone diligently five feet behind him with their supplies on his back like a good little soldier.</p>
<p>Robotnik walks until the soles of his boots no longer break through the surface of the snow. When his frame sways like the ancient church bell he shined as a child, Stone does not aid him. When Stone walks both behind and before him, his shadowy silhouette split at the same time and space, he does not question. Robotnik walks past the doppelganger without acknowledgement.</p>
<p>The wind picks up and with it comes sheets of snow lifted from the ground to cut through the air, frozen needles that sting what little skin is exposed. Each particle glimmers with a light of its own making, creating static unlike anything he has ever witnessed outside of a computer screen. Nucleation at low altitude, outside of its required formation boundary. Had he any loose items, he would throw one just to check if the acceleration of gravity is still 9.8 meters per second.</p>
<p>The howls of the storm now stampeding towards them grows in intensity, and only then does Stone finally materialize in his entirety by grabbing Robotnik by the arm. “We need to get back to the Cat,” he says, the urgency eclipsed yet again by his cool sense of presence.</p>
<p>“We’ll never outrun it,” Robotnik explains as he lifts a finger and points at something in the distance he cannot quite see but knows is there. “I believe there’s an overhang we may be able to use until the worst lets up.”</p>
<p>“Doctor, we need to go back. Now.”</p>
<p>“You can go ahead.” Robotnik wrestles his arm free, stumbling forward towards the shelter that may not be. He is too close to answers to turn back now.</p>
<p>“Take another step and I can guarantee you that you will not make it out of here alive, Doctor.”</p>
<p>“And why is that, Stone? Once again you dazzle me with your mystifying foresight. Keeping secrets? Telling lies? Now’s as good a time as any.”</p>
<p>“Sir, please.”</p>
<p>“As far as I see it, either option diminishes our probabilities of survival by at least eighty percent so why, pray tell, should we turn tail when we can finally crack the truth of what’s out here?”</p>
<p>“There is no truth. This place, it’s—it’s messing with our heads.”</p>
<p>“Leave without me.” Robotnik turns to him, a singular him, a Stone whose stark contrast against the grayish white reminds him of a sentinel. Or an omen. A djinn of ancient lore.</p>
<p>Lightning flashes overhead and it sends Stone into motion, cursing in his native Arabic as he grabs Robotnik by the arm and hauls him towards the unseen shelter. “Twenty percent survivability means a one-hundred percent raise once we get home.”</p>
<p>“And hot chocolate by the fireplace.”</p>
<p>“The comforts of home.”</p>
<p>“The comforts of home,” Robotnik repeats, eerily placid to his own senses as they walk towards the maw of an unknown far greater than he had ever dared dream. Always a scientist and never an adventurer, but he is beginning to understand that one cannot be one without the other.</p>
<p>As thunder booms and the sun finally dips below an impossible horizon, Robotnik keeps his attention on Stone and the determined set of his jaw. This is not a man determined to survive, but one determined to finish what he set out to do.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>With any luck, I'll have this baby wrapped up this summer! I'm exceptionally invested in this project and the expansive universe it takes place in, and I hope you guys are enjoying it as much as I am.  There has been some big narrative changes since its conception, and I do mean a complete overhaul, so fingers crossed the following chapters go as smoothly as my notes tell me they will. ❤</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>let's discuss some spooks over on twitter @<b><a href="https://twitter.com/astramaxima">astramaxima</a>!</b></p></blockquote></div></div>
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